Collapse
by Whisper-norbury
Summary: Thorin was closed and quiet, bent low under the weight of Fíli and Kíli's memory. For his two weeks in the Shire, he had never spoken of them, never mentioned their names, never told Bilbo how they had died - but the evening before the Dwarves were set to leave, the walls that Thorin had set up around himself began to crumble. (Bagginshield)
1. Collapse

_**NOTE:** This is an AU in which all of the Dwarves survived the Battle Of The Five Armies - but also in which tragedy later struck._

 _While this began as a friendship-based Thorin & Bilbo story, henceforth it will be undeniably Bagginshield-centric (though a slow-burn)._

 _I had considered writing follow-ups to the original story ("Collapse") as stories all their own, but in the end I decided to group them all together under this title. As such, there will be time-skips and narrative- and stylistic-shifts in future chapters._

* * *

Bilbo woke to the warmth of the morning sun on his face and the sound of birds singing in the tree above the Hill, but he found no comfort in either. He knew his friends would be leaving today, he knew they would be going back to Erebor so to get on with their lives there, but he did not want them to go just yet; and so he rolled onto his back on the dewy grass and threw his arm over his eyes, trying to will away the sunlight.

Thorin, Gloin, Óin, and Ori had passed westwards through Hobbiton with shortened beards and trimmed hair two months ago; but they had stayed with Bilbo for only a single night before continuing on to Ered Luin. The Dwarf-King's plan had been to bring his sister back to Erebor, but when Dís had learned of the fate of her sons, she had instead chosen to remain in the home where she had raised them. As her lady-in-waiting and friend, Gloin's wife had decided to stay with Dís so she would not be left alone in her grief; and so Gloin and their son had stayed in the Blue Mountains, as well.

That had left just three Dwarves returning to Erebor; and while on their way back through the Shire, Thorin, Óin, and Ori had again stopped at Bilbo's home. This time, however, their visit had lasted somewhat longer, with one day passing quietly, then another; then a week went by, and by now his guests had been with him for a fortnight.

Over that time, Óin and Ori had whiled away their waking hours either wandering the green hills of the Shire or reading through Bilbo's many books; then they would invariably help Bilbo with the cleaning before disappearing into the guest rooms at night. Thorin, himself, was usually to be found silently smoking by the fireplace in the parlor; until night fell, when he would excuse himself to the largest guest-chamber, which was next to Bilbo's own room.

Whether he then managed any rest, Bilbo couldn't say for certain; though sometimes when the Hobbit was on the edge of sleep, he thought that he heard the Dwarf's muffled voice singing on the other side of their shared wall. The songs were always slow and deep; lamentations, Bilbo thought, for Fíli and Kíli. Thorin never spoke of them, never mentioned how they had died. He barely spoke at all, in fact, and when he did it was just enough to thank Bilbo for a meal, or to wish him a good night before retiring for the evening; and any questions Bilbo would ask of him would either receive terse responses, or else be handed off to Ori and Óin.

They, at least, spoke with Bilbo often; and it was from them that he had learned of Dís's refusal to leave her mountain home. They had also told him, in more relaxed moments, about how each member of the Company was doing, and that the Ravens had returned and were once again serving as swift messengers between the Dwarves that lived in the Lonely Mountain and those in the Iron Hills; they told him about how well the cleaning and restoration of both Erebor and Dale was coming along, and how it would take many years before it was fully done; they told him about how Bard and his children were adjusting to their new lives, and how Thranduil was at least being civil to the Dwarves these days, if not exactly friendly.

But all they had to say about Fíli and Kíli was that they had died honorably. Beyond that, he knew nothing about the princes' deaths; and Bilbo figured it had been Thorin's wish that his companions remain silent on the matter. Bilbo, for his part, never pressed the issue.

Most mornings, the Dwarf-King would come out of his chamber just after sunrise, bleary-eyed and as silent as ever; then he would eat his breakfast before sitting down by the fireplace for a pipe. Just the morning before this one, however, he had announced that he and his companions would be leaving the next day. He then gave to Bilbo a fair amount of gold to cover the expenses that he feared had been incurred during their visit. Bilbo tried to return the money, telling him that his home was not an inn that would need to be paid for, and that it had been his pleasure to host them and that he would continue to do so for as long as they wished to stay. But Thorin would not accept the gold back, nor would he agree to stay longer, no matter how many times the Hobbit asked.

So the day passed by quietly again, until Bilbo went to see if Thorin needed anything towards evening and found that he was not in his chair by the fire. When he asked of Óin where Thorin had gotten off to, he was told that he had left a while before and had not yet come back. Óin and Ori did not feel that they should go after him-believing that he would return when he was ready to-but after a half-hour of waiting for the door to open and Thorin to step inside, Bilbo went out into the falling dusk in search of his friend.

He did not have to look far, as he found Thorin sitting on the Hill over Bag End, hugging his knees to his chest and staring up at the sky as the stars began to fade in. Bilbo did not say anything, but climbed up onto the turfed roof and sat quietly by his side, bringing out his pipe and lighting it before casually offering Thorin a puff. To Bilbo's surprise, the Dwarf accepted; and as they passed the pipe back and forth and watched the smoke drift away on the light breeze, Bilbo spoke a little about how things were getting on in the Shire.

Thorin listened in dignified silence as the Hobbit mentioned how Sandyman's mill had nearly burned down that spring, and how the owners of the Ivy Bush Inn were thinking of adding a new wing. He looked at Bilbo curiously when he mentioned there had been a bit too much rain this year, but how it had actually led to a fairly better crop of pipe-weed that had the drying racks in Little Delving overflowing. He smiled faintly when Bilbo told him about how Banbar Bolger's best sow had gotten away from her pen and had her litter in Farmer Diggle's tool shed.

By the time the pair had smoked the last of the Longbottom Leaf that Bilbo had packed into the pipe, the night had come fully on; but rather than suggesting that they go inside to enjoy the fire before turning in for the evening, Bilbo instead laid back on the cool grass and slid his hands under his head. The weather was fine for early autumn, and the sky was dark and the stars were clear; though, here and there, white clouds floated by. He let his eyes follow their progress for a while as he listened to the night-sounds all around them, then he looked again to Thorin.

The Dwarf's shoulders were slumped and his head was bowed, and he had his hand pressed to his brow. The Hobbit hesitated for a moment, then asked if there was anything he wanted to say, since it would likely be a long while before they would see one another again. Thorin shook his head and did not answer; and Bilbo looked back up at the sky.

After a while, Thorin laid back beside Bilbo; and though the Hobbit tried not to look at him at first, when he heard Thorin's breaths deepening, he figured his friend had gone to sleep. He rolled his head to the side to look and saw that he was wrong, though, as the Dwarf's eyes were half-opened and welling with tears. After sparing Bilbo a quick glance, Thorin closed his eyes. Bilbo wasn't sure if his friend went to sleep then, or if he had just shut his eyes to think; but it was not long before the Hobbit himself grew tired, and he did not notice when he drifted off.

He woke some time later to the sound of singing - much closer and clearer than what he had heard through his bedroom wall, but in the same deep, mournful tone. Bilbo did not understand the Dwarf-language, and he figured he never would; but he did not need to know the words to understand what was being said. He heard Fíli and Kíli's names, and Thorin's voice cracked; then the song came to a sudden end, as if Thorin had reached a part that he could not bear repeating.

Bilbo eased his eyes open and saw that Thorin was sitting again, and that his face was turned up. The Hobbit couldn't tell if Thorin knew he was listening, or if the Dwarf was talking to himself or to the sky; but presently Thorin began to speak, and it was as if a dam had burst when he began to tell of how his nephews had gone to the Iron Hills, and how they had never made it back to Erebor.

They had been eager to serve as escorts for a number of Dáin's folk that had decided to help in the rebuilding of Erebor; and Thorin had sent them off gladly, knowing that they were both well-suited to the task. The trip there had gone well, as had been reported by a Raven sent out by Dáin when Fíli and Kíli had arrived; and another Raven came soon afterwards with the news that the princes and their charge were on their way back to the Lonely Mountain.

The group did not arrive at Erebor on the day they were expected; but there was not much fear that anything had gone ill, as it was known that the Dwarves that would be marching in were likely to be slowed by the tools and goods they would be needing to rebuild the Kingdom Under The Mountain. But a day went by, then a week; and only then did Thorin send out scouts, led by Dwalin, to search for the travelers.

Less than a day's march out from Erebor, the party came across many smashed wagons and dead goats in a stand of trees near the eastern foothills of the Lonely Mountain; though there was no other sign of the three dozen Dwarves that had set out from the Iron Hills. The scouts searched the area, but they did not get far before they were waylaid by a troop of goblins. After a brief skirmish, all but one of the goblins lay dead - and that last one survived only by offering to lead Dwalin and the others to where the Dwarves were being held.

He took them then to a small mine that had been abandoned by Thror's people when Smaug attacked; though it was never learned whether the goblins had taken over the mine after the arrival of the dragon, or if they were refugees from the Battle. What was certain, though, was that when Dáin's folk came near with little in the way of weapons but many tools for working stone, the Dwarves had proven to be an irresistible draw and had been captured for slave labor.

When the scouting party came to the mine, the goblin that had been guiding them sent up a call that there were intruders; and for that, Dwalin was quick to gut him. Many other goblins soon came running from the mine's depths, but none made it out alive; and it was not then hard to track down the captive miners and their families. Fíli and Kíli were, at that point, still alive; and as the bonds were being cut and the cages opened, the princes let Dwalin know that all who had set out from the Iron Hills were alive and accounted for.

That was in no small part, it was later learned, because Fíli had realized the goblins' intention to make slaves of them from the start. He had ordered the Dwarves in his charge not to fight the overwhelming force, nor to give their captors reason to do them any harm; then he and his brother had succored them with the knowledge that, in short time, a rescue party would be sent out and the prisoners would be freed. To their credit and honor, Dáin's people had obeyed; and because of that, all had survived the week underground with little food or fresh water, and with the goblins' whips at their backs.

It was also later learned that Thorin's nephews had taken it upon themselves to bear the brunt of the goblins' ire while they had been enslaved; and that every time a miner would stumble or slow, one of the brothers would step in and draw the whip-masters' attentions. By the time Dwalin and the others had arrived, the princes' shirts had been shredded by the lashes, and the skin on their backs and chests were welted and, in places, raw. Fíli was feverish from infection, and Kíli's eye had been slashed and was swollen and closed; but despite their wounded and weary state, they still aided in the release of the other prisoners; and after they had all been freed of their bonds, the party set to leave the mine.

As they were making their way out, though, many more goblins showed themselves. They had silently cut off the exit, and had then sat in the darkness of the side-tunnels and waited for their enemy to near; then they attacked all at once, when the light of day was within sight of the fleeing Dwarves. Dwalin led the charge forward while the princes took up the rearguard; and slowly the scouting party and the miners and their families made their progress towards freedom. But soon, they heard the screeching of more goblin voices and the thundering of many feet behind them.

It was said that Kíli took a spear to the ribs and fell back, and that his brother stayed by his side as the rest of the defenders pushed ahead. Dwalin was by then near the mouth of the tunnel, and so he did not hear when Fíli and Kíli, far behind, ordered the Iron Hills Dwarves to smash the timbers that made up the mine scaffolding as they went past. They obeyed the princes without hesitation, and soon the wave of defenders, who were mostly armed with their mining tools alone, rushed through the enemy blockade and out into the sunlit foothills.

Still, from behind there was the calling of goblin-voices; and among them, the distant, echoing yells of Fíli and Kíli. Dwalin made ready to rush back into the mine after them, but there came a sudden rumbling then the crashing of boulders, and a cloud of dust rolled out of the tunnel and flowed down the hill, choking and blinding the escapees, and knocking them off their feet.

When the rumbling ended, but before the dust had come close to clearing, Dwalin and the others dove back into the mine; but they did not make it more than a few dozen yards before they came upon the remains of a cave collapse. Out from under the boulders was seeping thick black blood, and it was clear that a great number of goblins had been crushed by the fall.

The Dwarves began calling out to Fíli and Kíli, who, they learned after a quick head-count, were the only ones missing. But no answer came back; and when the miners started to try to clear away the rubble to find them, the tunnel began to shake once more. Heartsick, Dwalin ordered the miners and scouts out of the tunnel lest it collapse again; and after a time they found they could make the wounded wait no longer and withdrew to Erebor, leaving behind a few keen-eared scouts whose task was to listen for the princes, should they manage to lift their voices past the stones.

As soon as the party reached the Mountain with word of Fíli and Kíli, a great many Dwarves volunteered to go back for them; and among the volunteers was Thorin, himself, who was one of the first to make his way into the mine to try to clear the rubble away. But every effort to bring the princes out failed, as each boulder that was shifted and every time a pickaxe rang against the walls, more of the tunnel would come down and the walls began to crack and crumble. At the last, there was a roof-fall that nearly claimed the lives of those who were working the recovery, and the hill above the mine fell in, leaving a deep sinkhole behind.

After many days of effort and failure, the heavy decision was at last made to close off the mine; and Fíli and Kíli were left where they had fallen, their tomb being one that they had made for themselves - as the certainty was that they had themselves collapsed the mine in an effort to keep the goblins from coming up behind the fleeing Dwarves. It was, of course, never known whether they had hoped they could escape the cave-in, or if they had caused it with the full understanding that they would not make it out; but in their honor, those whose lives they had saved-as well as many other Dwarves of Erebor-had shorn their beards and shortened their hair.

Thorin had done the same in their memory; and even after Fíli and Kíli's memorial had ended, and the great slab of stone that now blocked the entrance had been carved with the princes' names, he had stayed at the mine. For a week, he spent his evenings sitting by the stone and listening for the sound of his nephews' voices on the other side. He found it hard to accept that Fíli and Kíli had been so near to home when they had been waylaid; he found it hard to believe that they had been so close to safety when the mine had collapsed. He wished that he had not delayed in sending out a search party, though he was himself not certain if it would have made a difference; and he likewise wished that he had sent more of an armed escort with them in the first place.

After his week's vigil had ended, he did not go back to Erebor, but sent word to Balin and Dwalin that they were to be in charge of the Mountain until he returned. He never told anyone where he was bound, or how long his journey would be; but in the dark of the night, when his retainers were all in a deep sleep, he had set out on his pony towards the west. He went on alone for a time, but Gloin, Óin, and Ori had tracked him down and joined him a few days on; and though he had ordered them back to Erebor, they refused to let him go on alone.

Having had said all this, Thorin fell into silence and laid back onto the ground once more, closing his eyes and folding his hands on his chest.

Bilbo thought then about how his perceptions of Dwarves had changed over the few years since he had taken to the road with Thorin and his kin. He remembered the Dwarves he had met when he was younger - the ones who had passed through the Shire on their way to Breeland and beyond. In those young days, he never believed that their kind were anything but stalwart and stoic; he never thought that they cried or fell into quiet mourning. Over the time he had spent with the Company, he had sadly learned better. Dwarves were, perhaps, made of stone; but even stone could crack if it was hit in just the right place. That place, for Thorin, seemed to be the lives of his sister-sons; and their loss had shattered him.

The Hobbit did not know if his friend managed to sleep after his story was done being told, but neither of them spoke again; and Bilbo closed his own eyes and let exhaustion and grief take over, then he himself fell into an uneasy rest.

Now, though, the sun was on the rise; and Bilbo lifted his arm from his face, knowing he could no longer fight the coming of the day. He turned his head to the side and saw that the spot where the Dwarf had laid the night before was bare, then he sat up and rubbed his eyes. As he made his way back down the Hill and into his home, he hoped to find that his friends had not left without saying goodbye. He wanted very much to speak to them at least one more time, to wish them well and to give them a fine meal before they headed out; but as he looked around the parlor and dining room, he saw nothing to prove that they had ever been there, save a single piece of folded-over paper that was sitting on the dining table.

The Hobbit picked up the note and unfolded it, then saw that the letters were in a fine script that he recognized as being Ori's hand. There was not much to read, except for many thanks for allowing Dwarves to stay; though just at the end, there was a short mention of how they looked forward to seeing him when they came back through in a couple months' time.

Bilbo reread the note as he shuffled to his bedroom, and there he fell onto his bed and tossed the paper onto the blanket beside him. He was glad to hear, at least, that they would be finding their way back to his home for a visit so soon; but as he did a short bit of figuring in his head, he realized that a _couple months_ would not give them time to get all the way to Erebor and back.

Light hit him hard in the corner of his eye and he shifted his head toward the window, where the sun was now shining bright and harsh through the glass; and he rose to his feet and made his way to it, intent on shutting the curtain and locking out the day. But there on the sill he saw another note; and when he opened it he saw that this one had been written in Óin's more bold strokes.

It was a more private letter, more personal; and in it, the older Dwarf gave his thanks for whatever words Bilbo had said to Thorin the night before, as they seemed to have eased some of the Dwarf-King's concerns - though Bilbo knew that it was only his listening, and not his own speaking that may have done his friend any good. Still, the note went on to say that Thorin did not know that Óin was writing this note of thanks, and that the intention was to leave it where only Bilbo might find it, so that the sentiment would be known to the Hobbit, alone.

At the end were signed the names of Óin and Ori; and after was a _P.S._ , which said that the change of plans had been Thorin's alone, and that if the others had been given the choice, they would all have stayed in the beauty and calm of the Shire rather than heading back west.

Bilbo eyed the letter curiously. A westward-road and a two-month trip likely meant that his friends had gone back to Ered Luin, for whatever reason - and to Bilbo's mind, that was a good thing. It was unlikely that Thorin was ready for the trek back to the Lonely Mountain just yet, and to be in a place that was more like home to him would certainly help in his healing. That also meant, Bilbo thought with a soft smile, that he might himself be able join his friends on their eastward journey when they came back through; then he would be able return to Erebor for a visit of his own, if for no other reason than to give Fíli and Kíli his farewells.

He set the note back down on the sill, then shifted around and made his way back to his bed, first sitting on the edge, then letting out a long and weary breath as he laid back onto his spread. His eyes closed and his body sank into his feather mattress as the restlessness of the disturbed night caught up to him; but as his mind started drifting back and forth on the edge of sleep, he heard a muffled sound like Dwarvish singing on the other side of his bedroom wall.


	2. The Sweet And The Bitter

_A week has passed since Ori and Oin left for Ered Luin, and since then Thorin has not set foot out of Bag End. Growing worried about him, Bilbo suggests that they go for a walk; and though Thorin is reluctant, he allows his dear friend to take him out into the silence and peace of the Overhill Woods._

* * *

"That's where the Sackville-Bagginses live," said Bilbo, motioning towards a large Hobbit-hole with a bright red door. "I've spoken of them before, haven't I?"

Thorin gave the house a sidelong glance. "You have, yes."

Bilbo moved quickly to the far side of the road, almost as if he feared his cousins would sense his presence if he came too near. "Dreadful family..."

Thorin looked back towards the house, and while his attention was drawn, the sole of his boot scraped against a high paving-stone and he lurched forward. Bilbo continued on, apparently unaware of Thorin's stumble; and the Dwarf righted himself, then stooped to tighten the straps of his boot.

He did not like to admit it-to either himself or to Bilbo-but he had become rather unaccustomed to wearing shoes after all the time he'd recently spent walking around barefoot in Bag End. And so, though he said nothing about it to the Hobbit, he'd had to pause many times during their walk so to either rest his feet or readjust the fit of his boots; and as he did so this time, he took the chance to better study the Sackville-Bagginses' home.

Though Thorin was certain that his perceptions had been somewhat altered by the more natural and homey landscaping of Bilbo's garden, to his eyes this place appeared a bit gaudy overall. There was certainly something showy in the topiaries and carved wooden statues that were situated along the side-hedges, the large yellow and orange flowers covering the grassy roof, and the blown-glass bauble that hung from the polished-brass doorbell's fine chain. Still, it looked much like most other Hobbit houses he had seen - though if the garden was indicative of the people who lived within the home, then it seemed to Thorin that Bilbo's estranged cousins were not so much _dreadful_ as they were just a touch pretentious.

Bilbo looked back over his shoulder as Thorin finished adjusting his straps, then he stopped walking until the Dwarf caught up to him. "Did I ever tell you that Lobelia tried to take my spoons?" he asked as they continued on together.

Thorin grunted softly. "You've mentioned it," he said; though in actual fact, Bilbo had _mentioned it_ several times over the last week, and by now Thorin knew the story well. "You got them back, at least."

"Maybe so, but she charged me _twice_ what she paid the auctioneer for them."

A few steps further on, Bilbo started humming softly to himself; and Thorin gave the Sackville-Bagginses' home another glance before following him up the hill.

He did not know where Bilbo was leading him, nor how long it would take to get there; though if he'd had his choice he would not have been outside at all. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy Bilbo's company-just the opposite, in fact-but he would much rather have been sitting in the drawing room with him, smoking and reading and sinking into the comfortable silence that they had so often shared since Ori and Oin had left for Ered Luin.

Thorin hadn't set foot out the door of Bag End since then - since the night he had spent on the roof with Bilbo, and he had told him about how Fíli and Kíli had died. That evening had been the first time in months that Thorin had managed a deep and peaceful sleep; and though the Hobbit's home was secure and the bed in the guest room was soft and warm, it had also been the _last_ such sleep he'd had.

He did not actually sleep much at all, in fact; and those times when he _did_ , it was restless and filled with grievous dreams. It had been so this morning, when Thorin awoke clawing at walls that were not there; and though Bilbo had not mentioned it, Thorin was certain that the Hobbit had heard him calling out to his nephews through the wall that separated their bedrooms.

Thorin was not surprised, then, when Bilbo asked him at breakfast if he would like to join him for a trip to the market. He had asked the same thing every morning for the past week; and this morning, as every other, Thorin had given the same answer in the form of a silent shake of his head. This time, however, Bilbo had gone on to suggest that, even if he did not feel like shopping, he should at least get out for a walk around Hobbiton. It was, after all, a beautiful day with just the right amount of clouds to keep the sun from shining down too brightly, and it seemed a waste to spend it inside - especially since autumn would soon be coming on and the days would be growing shorter.

After a few minutes of silence, Thorin had at last confessed that his reasons for not wanting to go out and about was not only for his own sake, but also because he did not want anyone to judge Bilbo poorly for being associated with him. When Bilbo asked what he meant, Thorin explained how he had always been given wary looks when he had gone through Hobbit towns in the past. He told Bilbo of how the residents would watch him closely at the market, as if they feared he would rob them; he told him of how they would peek out their windows and quickly shut their doors when he passed their homes; he told him of how they grabbed their children and hurried them away when he came near.

Bilbo, of course, claimed that did not care what anyone else thought of the company he kept, and that his _reputation_ was not something that he found great importance in anymore; but still Thorin told him that he would rather stay in, and that if Bilbo felt that he needed to go out, then he should not feel guilty about leaving him behind - that he would be waiting for him when he got back, as he always was.

But Bilbo would not hear of it, and after some thought he had instead suggested that they take a walk north past the Hill, rather than south towards the heart of town. When Thorin asked him where that path would lead them, the Hobbit simply said that it was a quieter route that led past fewer homes, and that they would only be going so far along the road before they went off the trail and to a place that he was sure Thorin would find pleasant.

To this, Thorin had at last agreed; and so they had set out not long after breakfast, when the tree-shadows were still long with the morning light. Their going so far had been rather slow, however; both because of Thorin frequently needing to adjust his boots, and because Bilbo had been pointing out landmarks all along the way - telling him about things that had happened in certain spots either months, years, or centuries ago. It had really been little more than idle chatter, though, until ire rose into Bilbo's eyes when they neared the Sackville-Bagginses' home.

"They still don't quite believe that I am _me_ ," said Bilbo, drawing Thorin out of his thoughts. "They've been spreading rumors that I am some kind of _impostor_ , if you can believe that. Though about the only one that will pay them much heed is young Sandyman."

It took a moment for Thorin to realize that Bilbo was still speaking of his cousins; and though the Dwarf still did not feel much like making conversation, there was something in Bilbo's tone that gave him the impression that he wanted to say more.

"Are they that bad, really?" Thorin pressed gently. "Have they _never_ shown you any kindness?"

Bilbo cast his eyes up at the cloud-dotted blue sky, then looked back towards the red door, which was now far down the hill. "Lobelia did _once_ ," he said, turning forward again. "But since then, she has neither given me a kind word, nor a friendly smile. It could be that she just doesn't care for me, but I think it has more to do with what I have and what she doesn't."

"And what is that?"

Bilbo shrugged, but said nothing.

Soon they came to a fork in the road, and Bilbo led them down the left path; and a few more minutes along, they passed beyond the few homes that were situated along the road, and instead came to a place where the trees on either side were tall and thick. The hill grew steeper here, and the pair continued up it wordlessly for a while; and when they reached the flattened area at the top of the rise they halted and stared down the far side.

There were a few free-standing homes at the bottom, and at the center of the settlement several Hobbits were dragging massive logs behind work-ponies. Other Hobbits sawed and chopped at the logs that were already stacked nearby, then tossed the hewn wood onto sledges, which were being pulled by more ponies to a large stonework building with a black-billowing smokestack at the top. Just behind the building flowed a wide river that began in the woods to the west, then vanished into the trees away east; and on the bank, workers were loading rafts with wheelbarrows full of some kind of black material.

"What is that place?" asked Thorin, squinting so to better see the bustle below.

"Charcoal yards," said Bilbo.

He sounded almost agitated, and when Thorin looked over at him, he saw that his brow was furrowed and his shoulders were stiff. Bilbo glanced in his direction, then turned suddenly and led the way into the trees, apparently determined to leave the road far behind as quickly as possible; and though Thorin briefly trailed behind, he soon caught up and fell into step beside him.

"This is the Overhill Woods," said Bilbo. "It goes on north from here to the river that flows out of the Rushock Bog, and past it the Bindbole Woods extend all the way to Brockenborings." He motioned to the north. "Up _that_ way."

Thorin nodded. "And where are _we_ going?"

Bilbo pointed ahead of them. " _This_ way."

A small smile rose to Thorin's lips; then he let out a long breath and looked around.

There was no proper path here, but Bilbo was clearly familiar with the area, as he strode forward boldly, working his way down the slight incline and weaving around any obstacles he came to. The trees here were many and varied, the air was heavy and humid, and the ground cover grew thicker as they moved deeper into the forest. It seemed to Thorin that there was plenty of potential for an abundance of game, and he found it odd that they hadn't seen anything larger than a fox since they had set out from Bag End.

"Is there good hunting in these parts?" he asked absently.

"Some," said Bilbo with a shrug. "Not as much as there once was, I'm afraid. There's still deer and rabbits, of course, but most of the bears and wild boars have..." He let out a quick laugh. "Herugar!"

"What?" asked Thorin, puzzled. "What is a _Herugar_?"

"Not _what_... _who_ ," said Bilbo, his smile widening. "Herugar Bolger. He's a cousin of mine that raises pigs over in Budgeford."

"Oh. What about him?"

Bilbo shook his head, laughing. "I was just remembering when he had a bit too much to drink one night last winter, and for some reason he got it into his head that he could ride one of his pigs like a pony! Some folks said it was young Sandyman that put him up to it, but really, if you knew Herugar..." He looked up at Thorin for a moment before turning ahead once more. "But anyway, instead of picking out a nice fat sow, he hopped up on his biggest and meanest boar and jabbed his toes into its sides, and it just bolted! Straight through the fence and on up towards Frogmorton, and there was Herugar, just holding on for dear life..."

Thorin smiled. "That must have been quite a thing to see."

"I didn't actually see the beginning of the ride myself," said Bilbo. "I was at the Green Dragon having a toast, and somehow or other, Herugar rode that boar all the way to Bywater. We just heard this awful noise and we all ran outside to see him on the boar's back, covered with mud and with his eyes wide as dinner-plates. All we could hear for about an hour was squealing as the boar ran back and forth along the road, and I'd venture to guess that most of the squealing wasn't coming from the pig!"

At this, Thorin actually let out a brief laugh. "Has he tried that again?"

"To be honest, I don't think he went near his pigs for a month afterwards," said Bilbo as they got to the bottom of the incline. "But at the time, I just... he reminded me of Dáin on his war-boar, all screaming and charging into battle, and..." He snickered; then his eyes widened and his expression fell. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" asked Thorin.

Bilbo stopped walking and looked up at him. "For... well, for bringing up Dáin, for one. I had no intention on reminding you of things back East when I brought you out here."

"I am curious about what you _did_ bring me out here for," said Thorin, trying to force some lightness into his voice. He raised an eyebrow and gave Bilbo a crooked grin. "I'll wager it wasn't to talk about _pigs_."

A few seconds passed, then Bilbo cleared his throat. "Honey," he said; then he must have seen Thorin's confusion, as his cheeks reddened and he hastily went on. "Bee hives."

"Wild hives?"

"Not quite," said Bilbo. He started walking again, and Thorin followed along. "Well, I suppose so, yes. We're not far away from them, though, and you'll see for yourself when we get there. We just need to go on ahead this way; up and over the next rise, then at the bottom there's the leading edge of a forest marsh, and that's where we'll find them. It's the only place I ever get my honey, if I can help it."

Thorin glanced at Bilbo, wondering if he had just not noticed if the Hobbit had brought a satchel along. "Were you planning on carrying the honeycomb back in your hands?"

"I have plenty of honey at home right now," said Bilbo as they began up a short hill. "I just wanted to show you where I gather it. I've never shown anyone else, though, so keep hushed about it. Especially around Lobelia!"

They came to the top of the ridge, and there they stopped. At the bottom was the marsh that Bilbo had been speaking of, settled into the small trench between two hills and curving around the westernmost one, then vanishing deep into the woods beyond.

Thorin wrinkled his nose at the musty smell rising up from below. "An odd place for a mere."

"It wasn't there until a few years ago," said Bilbo. "The Rushock Bog has been spreading this way, for some reason. Likely on account of the loggers taking trees from the mouth of the river." They started down the hill, and as they went large bees began buzzing all around them. "There used to be a lot of bears around here. It made honey-gathering rather difficult, at times, since they would always get to the the wild hives."

"Sounds like it could have been dangerous for you," said Thorin, eyeing a bee that had flown right up to his face.

"Dangerous for my _mother_ , really. Most of the bears were gone by the time I was grown."

"It was not your father that gathered the honey?"

"Not if he could help it," said Bilbo. "My mother was always the one that got out and about in the woods. She loved exploring and _adventuring_." The corner of his mouth curled up. "I guess I got that from _her_."

They came to the bottom of the hill, and there Bilbo ran his fingers along the bark of a large tree. He looked up, and though Thorin found it hard to draw his gaze off of Bilbo's soft smile, he turned his own eyes to the treetops as well. The large oak next to them was dead, and the branches had been lopped off at some point long ago; and when Thorin looked around, he saw several other trees in the same state.

Bilbo patted the trunk. "Mistletoe killed these oaks a few years before I was born, so my mother took off the branches and hollowed out the trunks, then she boarded them up." He stepped back and pointed halfway up the tree, to where two rough planks covered a hole in the trunk that large bees were flying out of and crawling into, and generally busying themselves around in the late-morning air. "She hoped that the bees would make hives of them, so that the bears would not be able to get to them so easily. It worked."

"Your mother was clever," said Thorin. "And _brave_."

"She was a _Took_ ," returned Bilbo, his grin widening.

The Hobbit walked to a stump nearby, and there he reached inside a hollow on the side and drew out a length of knotted rope with a three-pronged hook on the end. The rope appeared rather old and brittle; but still, Bilbo returned with it to the tree and began swinging the hook in a circle at his side.

"You may want to step back," he said.

After Thorin obeyed, Bilbo lofted the hook high into the air. It caught on the remains of a sawed-off branch just below the hive, and as Bilbo tugged on it a few times, the bees began to buzz loudly and fuss about outside their home.

"We best wait until they calm themselves," said Bilbo.

He sat down, leaning his back against the trunk, and after a moment of staring at him, Thorin did the same. His arm brushed against Bilbo's shoulder as he lowered himself down, and he casually shifted away a few inches, so that they were no longer touching. Bilbo did not seem to notice the contact-or else he hadn't minded-and he leaned his head against the tree and looked over at the Dwarf.

"Remember what I said earlier about Lobelia?" he asked, wiggling his toes in a tuft of grass.

"What about her?"

"That _one_ kindness she ever showed me..." Bilbo began, then he drew his knees up to his chest. "It was quite some time ago, just after she married Otho and moved from Hardbottle to Hobbiton. Back then she was a bit more eager to please, though not much..."

His voice trailed off as he seemed to sink into thought; and though he was no longer looking at Thorin, the Dwarf found that he could not stop studying his face as his eyes shifted slightly, like he was reading words on an invisible page. After a few silent minutes Bilbo sighed, then he rested his cheek on his knee and focussed on Thorin once more.

"I had... well, I had a bit of trouble with these bees here," he said. "My neck and back were welted and swollen from the stings, and it was really rather painful, and since her house was on the way back to mine, I stopped in. She treated them for me."

"That was nice of her," said Thorin.

"She was quite good at it, actually."

"At least she is not _completely_ dreadful."

"Maybe not _completely_ ," Bilbo agreed - though a bit reluctantly, it seemed. "Not that I have since sat down with her long enough to find out for certain."

Thorin lowered his head and ran his fingers through his shortened hair. "It is a shame to keep kin at a distance."

After a few breaths he turned again to Bilbo, whose attention was on the ground before them; but the Hobbit said nothing, and Thorin pursed his lips.

"Dáin really did look the fool when he first saddled up his boar," he said, reaching down absently and loosening his boot straps where they had begun to feel too tight over his feet. "It rolled over on top of him and refused to get off, no matter how much he yelled and pushed. It even gnawed on his leg at one point. He still has the scars from its teeth."

"And you didn't help him?" asked Bilbo with a slight grin.

"He was too proud back then to accept help from anyone," said Thorin. "Even _me_."

"From what I know of him, he hasn't lost any of that pride."

"You would be surprised at how far he's come since we were young," said Thorin. "How far _we_ have come. I would not have accepted help so readily back then, either."

Bilbo fixed him with a gentle stare, then gave him a slight nod and patted him on the arm. His touch lingered there for a moment, then he slid his fingers away and stood, looking at the hive above them.

"Seems the bees have calmed a bit," he said, tugging on the rope.

Thorin rose to his feet and watched as the Hobbit began making his way up the tree; and though the rope and the branch it was hooked to creaked and groused alarmingly, after a few minutes Bilbo reached the top in safety. He pulled himself onto the branch and wiggled the hook out of the wood, then he drew the loop of the rope around the branch and slid the curve of the hook around the rope.

With that done, he eased the top board off of the bracket that was holding it in place over the hive, then he cautiously reached inside; and though Thorin was afraid that Bilbo might get stung, the Hobbit moved with such ease and gentleness that the bees hardly seemed to notice he was there.

After a few seconds of feeling around, Bilbo drew out a chunk of honeycomb about the size of his palm, then he held the comb between his teeth and replaced the board before quickly making his way back down the rope. Soon, he was again standing by Thorin's side; and he took the honeycomb out from between his teeth and broke off part of it, handing the larger piece to the Dwarf.

"Try some," he said, wiping the honey off his chin with the back of his hand. "It's the best you'll find in the Shire."

Thorin took the comb and bit off a small corner. It really was fine honey, and the wax was warm and soft; and after the first taste, he could not help but eat the rest in a single bite. He chewed eagerly, then licked the last bits of honey off of his fingers before turning to see that Bilbo was doing the same with his own sticky hands.

"I can see why you prefer this," said Thorin. "It definitely seems to be worth the extra effort."

Bilbo hummed agreeably, then took hold of the rope and gave it a slight jiggle. The hook loosened where he had looped it, and he stepped back and let go; and the loose end of the rope rose as the weight of the hook pulled down on the other end. The hook landed with a slight _thud_ on the ground, and the rope slithered down after it, then Bilbo coiled it around his arm.

"Come on." He rushed back to the hollow stump and stowed the rope once more. "That will have upset the bees a bit, and now we smell like honey."

"That _could_ be a problem, yes."

"I just hope the loggers don't come up this way," said Bilbo as he began to walk south, along the edge of the swamp. "It would be a shame if they made charcoal of my mother's honey-trees."

"Yes, it would," said Thorin. He turned his face towards the leafy canopy, then looked down again and began following after Bilbo. "It would be a great loss if these woods were to be taken away."

"I didn't think you had love for _any_ trees or woods," said Bilbo.

"You might be surprised what I have love for," said Thorin; then he tightened his jaw and clasped his hands behind his back. "I used to go for walks through the woods around the Lonely Mountain all the time before Smaug came." His feet slowed then stopped as his attention was drawn into the dreary mere. "Before he burned the trees in the foothills, before he turned it all to ash and _charcoal_."

A touch on his arm brought him suddenly back to the moment, and he drew in a quick breath.

"Come on, then," the Hobbit said. "It's close to lunchtime."

Thorin nodded and turned, following Bilbo as he led the way south once more. "I missed those walks when we were forced into exile," he went on. "We made our way through many forests and woods on our way to Ered Luin, but I never had a chance to enjoy them. My every thought from then on was about what I could _get_ from them, what I could use to help my people survive."

"And you could not be blamed for that. Priorities do change, don't they?"

"They do. But even after we had settled... after we no longer had to fear that our food would run out day-to-day, or that we would freeze to death for want of firewood... even then, I could not bring myself to find joy in a simple walk through the woods."

"Not even in Ered Luin?" asked Bilbo. "I'll bet there are many nice places for strolls out that way."

"Perhaps," said Thorin. "And I cannot say that I did not get out into the woods there, but never for pleasure or relaxation. I would go..." His heart sank, and he had to take a deep breath before continuing. "I would go out with Fíli and Kíli from time to time, but it was always for training. To teach them how to track or hunt or trap..."

Bilbo stopped walking, and a few paces on, Thorin drew himself to a halt as well. He did not turn around, though, and the Hobbit stepped up to his side.

"I'm sorry if I have reminded you of things you would rather not be thinking about," said Bilbo. "I brought you out this way for air and exercise... and _honey._ Not for... I didn't intend..."

"You are not reminding me of anything that I don't already think about every day," said Thorin, then he smiled weakly and looked into Bilbo's soft eyes. "And I have very much enjoyed being out here with you today. The truth is, I have not been this relaxed in a long time."

Bilbo stared at him doubtfully. "You'll forgive me, Thorin, but you don't _seem_ relaxed."

Thorin swallowed hard, then forced his gaze forward and walked on; and Bilbo again came up next to him, leading the way through the trees.

Despite the memories that were being churned up, Thorin really was happy to be out there. The woods were lovely and quiet, and the knowledge that there was nothing there that would do them any harm was heartening. The Shire really was a safe place, and it was nice that they did not need to be on their guard as they went along; but despite his effort to keep his mind on what was around him here and now, Thorin's thoughts began to drift.

He pictured his nephews rushing between the tall trees - hiding and seeking as they did when they were younger, and stalking game as when they had grown. Thorin had enjoyed very much the same things when he had been a youth, but Fíli and Kíli had never outgrown that joy as he had; and it hurt Thorin to think of how he had tried to reign it in as they had grown older.

After many minutes passed in silence, Thorin and Bilbo came to an old mossy stone wall that was only about as tall as a Hobbit's waist. Bilbo began walking along it, and Thorin followed behind; but before long the Dwarf could no longer bring his feet to carry him forward and he sat on the top of the wall, staring down at his hands.

"I think... they would have loved these woods," he said. "Fíli and Kíli, I mean. They would have loved it here. There are so many trees to climb, so many places to hide."

He heard Bilbo step up in front of him, but he did not lift his eyes; and soon the Hobbit's small hand came to rest on his shoulder. But still, Bilbo did not speak, and Thorin went on

"They loved _exploring_ ," he said, his voice cracking. "Woodlands and riverbanks and ruins. Anything, really. I... they never got the chance to do those things when I took them to the hills and the forests near our halls in the Blue Mountains. I always kept them busy training and... I was trying so hard to teach them how to _survive_..."

Bilbo's hand slid off of Thorin's shoulder, then he grunted as he lifted himself up and sat on the wall. "You taught them well, Thorin. If not for you..."

" _If not for me_..." Thorin interrupted, curling his fingers into fists. "If not for my _insistence_ on bringing them with me on the quest... if not for my _foolishness_ in sending them off to the Iron Hills without escort..."

His chest began to burn and his eyes welled up, and he slammed his fist down on the wall. He lifted his hand again, but Bilbo grabbed him by the wrist, and his unusually strong grip forestalled the next strike. Thorin glanced at him, then his tensed arm relaxed and he lowered his hand onto his lap.

"Listen, Thorin..." Bilbo's touch left Thorin's wrist and he took hold of his hand, squeezing it reassuringly. "If you feel you failed them, then you are wrong. They were strong and well-trained, and wise beyond their years. You taught them to take care of _others_. That is not a bad lesson, and they took it to heart."

Thorin shook his head. "My sister... their _mother_ taught them all that was worth knowing." He pressed his hand to his brow and tightened his jaw, unable to go on. "I just... I want to go home now." He winced at his own words and stood, then began walking along the wall once again. " _Your_ home. It's time we got back. The morning has gotten late, and your honey has made me thirsty."

He did not know where he was going, did not know if this was the way back to Bag End; but he felt the need to move, to not be still. He began to drag his fingers along the stone wall, while behind him the sound of Bilbo's feet rushing through the undergrowth grew nearer as he strove to keep up with the Dwarf's longer strides.

"Thorin!" Bilbo called out, grabbing him by the wrist. "Wait!"

Thorin yanked back slightly from his grip, but he found that he did not, in fact, want the Hobbit to let go. Still, he continued on without slowing, until at last Bilbo pulled him to a halt.

"Is _this_ how Dwarves mourn, Thorin?" he asked abruptly. "Is this how they grieve? Do they shut it away and lock it up? Is this... _normal_ for your kind when they lose someone they love?"

Thorin glared at him, but he could not do so for long before he turned his eyes aside.

"I need to know, Thorin. I need..." Bilbo loosened his hold a bit, then shook his arm gently. "I don't know what I am supposed to do to help you. I have tried giving you private time, I have tried distracting you with outside pursuits, I have tried speaking with you about Fíli and Kíli, I have tried avoiding the subject altogether. Tell me... please, just tell me what I am supposed to do for you, Thorin..."

The ground seemed to grow soft under Thorin's feet and he stumbled back, though Bilbo's grip kept him from falling. "You have already done it."

" _What_ have I done?"

"You _listened_ ," said Thorin, his voice quavering. "That night on your roof, you _listened_. I... even I did not know that was what I needed, until the moment came."

Bilbo lowered his face and released Thorin's wrist. "I wasn't sure if you knew I was awake."

"I spent enough time at your side along the Road," said Thorin, "that I know how you breathe when you are asleep."

Bilbo's eyes flitted in Thorin's direction. "And I spent enough time at your side to know when you have something to say, but are afraid to say it."

A lump rose in Thorin's throat and he began walking again; but before he made it more than a few steps, it felt as if hands had grabbed him from the forest floor and held his feet tight. He tensed his legs, trying to will them to move but still he stood, frozen in place; and Bilbo stepped near and placed his palm on Thorin's back.

"I will _always_ listen, Thorin," he said gently. "To _anything_ you need to say, _whenever_ you need to say it. And if you need silence, then I will give that to you, as well."

He stepped around the Dwarf and walked on ahead, but Thorin stood fast; and soon the imagined hands that were holding him in place pulled him to his knees. He hung his head and his shoulders began to heave, and past his own gasping breaths and the rushing of blood in his ears, he heard shuffling feet before him.

"They should have had more time with _her_... with their mother," Thorin said before he could stop himself; then he looked up at the Hobbit past the blur in his vision. "When they were young, she played games with them, she took them on picnics, she... she told them stories that had nothing to do with death and dragon-fire..." He hung his head again, squeezing his eyes shut. "But... when they grew older they spent less time with her, and more with me, just... _training_."

Bilbo placed a hand on Thorin's shoulder, then he grunted slightly as he kneeled in front of him. "When I was young, my mother took me out into these woods all the time. She took me fishing and hiking and _adventuring_." He eased his touch off of Thorin's shoulder, then took hold of his hand. "I loved the time I got to spend with her, I loved that she thought to bring me along when she gathered honey or collected mushrooms."

Thorin twisted his own hand around, linking their fingers. "You were lucky to have her," he said. "She raised you well."

"My _father_ also raised me," said Bilbo. He slid the fingers of his free hand under Thorin's whiskered chin and eased his face up until their eyes met. "He was not one for exploring or climbing trees or fishing or games of any sort that could not be played while sitting down, but I did not like spending time with him any less than I did with my mother." He lowered his hand from Thorin's chin and began rubbing his arm soothingly. "I loved them both, in different ways, but neither of them more than the other."

Thorin shook his head. "I was not their _father._ I was their uncle, their _leader_. They _respected_ me, they obeyed me, the defended me, they honored me..."

"They _loved_ you," said Bilbo. "And they knew that _you_ loved _them_."

Tears forced their way out of Thorin's eyes and he shut them tight, then he let go of Bilbo and leaned forward, clutching at the back of his head as it began to throb.

 _How_ could they know that, when he had never said it? How could they have known that it was not for himself that he had so long wanted to reclaim Erebor, but for _them_? How could they have known that all the training that he had given them had been in the hopes that it would keep them alive, that they would outlive him and carry on after he was gone?

If he had just let them stay in Ered Luin with Dís instead of bringing them along on the quest, they would still be alive. They would still be young and happy, and full of life. They would still be able to run through the woods, still be able to explore and discover. They would not now be buried in a collapsed mine in the foothills of the Lonely Mountain; they would not be dead because he had forced them to grow up before their time.

"What did I do for them, but teach them how to _die_?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Thorin..." Bilbo began.

He did not go on, and instead he wrapped his arms around Thorin and pulled him near; and after a few ragged breaths, Thorin returned the embrace, holding him tight and waiting for the silence to be broken.

But Bilbo did not speak, did not try again to offer up sympathies - and for that Thorin was thankful. All he needed right now was to hold on, to root himself in place, to cling to someone that would keep him from falling further; and so he drew Bilbo closer and buried his face in the curve of his neck.


	3. Good Company

_When Bilbo's cousin comes by seeking a favor, the Hobbit cannot turn him away. Surprisingly, Thorin seems to be happy with the company that follows; but still Bilbo fears that the pleasant conversation will take an upsetting turn._

* * *

Bilbo stepped back and examined the dining-room table. It had been a long time since he'd hosted anyone besides Dwarves in his home, but the four place settings seemed suitable enough for a small dinner party - even though his mother's dishes were somewhat chipped from the rough treatment they'd gotten in Toby Sandheaver's possession. It had taken Bilbo months to get them back after the auction, and by that time three of them were already broken; but despite the fact that he could easily have replaced them with a new set, he still considered them to be his best, chips and all.

A deep sigh came from the doorway behind him, and he turned to where Thorin had been standing with his arms crossed and his shoulder against the jamb for the last five minutes.

"Are you sure you will be comfortable with this?" asked Bilbo, stepping over to him.

Thorin looked off to the side. "You needn't worry about me," he said. "So long as your guests don't find my presence disturbing."

"Rorimac and Menegilda know that you've been visiting me. If they had any problem with you being here, they wouldn't have accepted the invitation."

"Still, if you would prefer that I remain in my room..."

His voice trailed off, and Bilbo shook his head.

"You know very well that I would not have you hide away or pretend that you're not here." He moved past Thorin, then stepped to the pantry across the hall and grabbed a plate of tarts. "I'm not worried about what people might say about the friendships I keep."

"You _used_ to be worried about that."

Bilbo returned to the dining-room and set the tarts down at the center of the table. "That was a long time ago," he said with a shrug. "People change. You should know that as well as anyone."

Thorin's eyes softened, but he said nothing; and Bilbo walked close to him and smiled faintly.

In the four days since Thorin had broken down in the woods, their conversations had become more frequent, more varied, and more relaxed; but though Bilbo was careful not to mention Fíli and Kíli, it was inevitable that they would come up from time to time. Always, it was Thorin that first spoke of them, and always he would continue on about them until he either fell into quiet reflection, or until Bilbo managed to find some opportunity to shift over to more pleasant subjects.

Thankfully, the night before this one their conversation had been light, and they had stayed up for many hours in the drawing-room, drinking ale and smoking pipe-weed as they spoke about nothing in particular. When Bilbo had at last headed off to his bedroom some time after midnight, he had done so happily - both because he knew that Thorin had gone to his own room smiling, and because he was looking forward to whatever they might find to speak about over breakfast.

When morning came, however, Bilbo had been awoken by a loud ring at the door. He found his cousin, Rorimac Brandybuck on the step, looking agitated and anxious; and though Bilbo had at first feared that something was wrong with Menegilda, Rorimac had quickly assured him that his wife was fine - but that there _was_ a problem that Rory did not quite know the way out of.

 _"Gilda's going to have the baby soon!"_ he'd said. _"Well, in a week or so, maybe! But still soon!"  
_

That, of course, was something Bilbo already knew, as he often spoke with both of them at the market. But then Rorimac went on.

 _"I was supposed to head out tonight to bring Mirabella in from Buckland, and Gilda was supposed to be staying with Ponto and Gilly until I got back,"_ he'd said. _"But Ponto's come down sick, and it might be catching, so she can't possibly stay there now! What should I do, Bilbo? You know this town better than I do. Where might Gilda stay? Not at the inn, surely! And she can't possibly make the ride with me to Buckland and back in her state!"_

After his cousin finally settled down-but before giving it much thought-Bilbo offered to host Menegilda for the next few days, himself; then he had quickly reminded Rorimac that he already had a houseguest that he would also be entertaining during that time. A _Dwarf_ houseguest. But while many Hobbits of the Shire might have been reluctant to spend time with Dwarves, Rorimac and Menegilda had just moved to Hobbiton from Buckland, and those Hobbits that lived over the Bridge were quite used to their company. And in any case, Rorimac admitted that he had been quite eager to meet the _dear friend_ that Bilbo spoke so often about at the market.

 _"Well, then, why not come over and have some dinner with us before you head out?"_ Bilbo had offered.

Rorimac accepted the invitation gratefully, then rushed off to make all the requisite arrangements; and Bilbo had then gently informed Thorin that he would soon be attending his first Hobbit dinner party that did not involve a bevy of Dwarves. Thorin had not seemed happy about the plan, but until the dinner preparations were well under way, he had not said anything about it, and Bilbo was not surprised when Thorin finally explained that his worries continued to be for Bilbo's reputation rather than for his own discomfort.

Still, the situation really was one of necessity, and Bilbo only hoped that his friend's mood would lighten and his mind would ease over the course of the evening. Bilbo smiled wider as he looked up at Thorin, but before he could say anything more, the doorbell rang; and so he instead bit softly on his tongue, then patted Thorin on the arm as he made his way into the hall.

He put on a welcoming expression as he swung the door open to find his cousins standing outside. Rorimac had a large canvas bag tucked under one arm and his other arm around his wife's back - but while he still seemed a bit agitated, Menegilda herself was beaming. She did not look any different from the last time Bilbo had seen her, a week or so before; though when he turned his attention to where her small hand was resting on her rounded belly, it struck him how very close the baby was to being born.

He stepped back from the door. "Come in! Come in!" he said, taking the bag so that Rorimac could help Menegilda over the threshold. "You're just in time for dinner!"

"I've never once been late, Bilbo!" said Rorimac, shutting the door behind them. "Well, except when..."

He fell suddenly silent as he lifted his eyes; and when Bilbo followed his gaze he saw Thorin standing beside the dining-room door with his hands clasped behind his back.

"Ah!" said Bilbo, leading his guests down the hall. "Rorimac, Menegilda... this is Thorin Oakenshield, of Erebor." He turned then to the Dwarf. "Thorin, I'd like you to meet my cousins..."

"Rorimac and Menegilda Brandybuck," said Rorimac enthusiastically. "Of Buckland!"

He held out a hand for a shake, just as Thorin offered a slight bow; and so Rorimac instead lifted his hand into an awkward wave.

Menegilda smiled wider. "It's a pleasure to meet you!"

Thorin bowed again, lower this time. "Likewise."

" _Thorin_ ," said Rorimac, snapping his fingers. "I know that name. Where have I heard that name?"

Bilbo and Thorin gave each other a glance, then Bilbo motioned towards the dining-room.

"Shall we have dinner now?" he asked.

"Ah, I _would_!" said Rorimac. "But I've got to be going!"

"Well, that's a shame," said Bilbo. "Must you really be off so soon? And without dinner?"

"I'm afraid so. I passed by old Derri Chubb on the way over, and she said her knees were aching, and you know what _that_ means!"

"Rain?"

"Rain! And if I'm lucky, I might make it as far as the Floating Log Inn before it hits."

"Not on foot, I assume?"

"Oh, no no no! I've got my wagon out front, and I really must not leave it too long. My pony loves flowers and I'm afraid he might find yours to be tasty." Rorimac then turned to his wife and took her by the hand. "Are you going to be well, dear? Are you going to..."

"Rory, relax!" Menegilda scolded gently. "I am in good company, and I've never known a Baggins that was not the best of hosts!"

"All right, all right!" said Rorimac. He shook a finger at Bilbo. "Best you treat her well, Cousin!" He kissed Menegilda gently on the cheek, then spun around towards the front door. "And I'm off!"

"Just a moment, Rory!" said Bilbo. "Will you at least take a basket with you?"

"Oh, yes! Of course! Have you any fruited scones?"

Bilbo smiled. "With honey glaze."

"My favorite!"

"So I recall." Bilbo turned to Thorin. "If you wouldn't mind seeing Menegilda to the table, I'll be in as soon as I get Rory on his way."

The Dwarf's eyes widened slightly, then he nodded and stepped back from the dining-room door, motioning for Menegilda to enter before him. She did so, and from the corner of his eye Bilbo saw Thorin pull a chair out for her to sit.

Bilbo then began rushing about, first running Menegilda's bag to one of the guest bedrooms, then hurrying to the kitchen; before long, he had made for his cousin a basket of pastries and cakes, which he quickly brought to the front door. Rorimac was standing on the threshold, looking up at the overcast sky; and though he jumped when Bilbo laid a hand on his shoulder, he very nearly bounced with joy when he saw the basket.

"That should see you a few miles, at least," said Bilbo, handing it to him.

"Oh, thank you! It smells wonderful!" His eyes darted back and forth, then he leaned close. "Are you certain it won't be a bother for Menegilda to stay with you?" he asked, lowering his voice. "She would be fine on her own, of course, but our home is in a rather rugged place, and if something were to happen..."

"Really, it's no bother at all," said Bilbo, cutting him off.

"And your Dwarf friend? He does not object?"

Bilbo looked slightly back towards the dining-room. "He is fine with it," he said hesitantly. "Though I am afraid he is a bit... well, he's not really used to how Hobbits entertain."

"Why would he be unused to it?" asked Rorimac. "How long has he been here?"

"Close to a month, I suppose," said Bilbo, scratching his head.

"Heavens! Isn't that enough time to get used to _anything_?"

"Well, I haven't actually entertained much since he's been here. And to be honest, he's been..." Bilbo paused, not wanting to go on about his good friend's troubles. "You know how Dwarves are, Rory."

"Oh, that I do!" said Rorimac. "Stubborn and set-in-their-ways, and rowdy when you get 'em together! But good folk! Good folk, all! And I have always trusted your judgement, so I know that this Thorin fellow will be top-notch!"

Bilbo lowered his head into a slight nod. "You are right about that," he said. "And you best be going now, if you want to beat the rain to Frogmorton."

"And now I'm _really_ off!" said Rorimac. He clutched the basket to his chest and bounded down the path. "Mind you, feed Gilda well! She is eating for two!"

Bilbo sighed as he shut the door, then he leaned his back against it for a few breaths before making his way to the dining-room. The silence between Thorin and Menegilda must be quite deep by now, he figured, and as host it was certainly up to him to break it; but he heard voices as he neared the door, and he stopped just outside the room and looked in at his guests.

"I've actually met a lot of Dwarves," said Menegilda, patting her belly softly. "Many come through Buckland, and if I am to be honest, I have always enjoyed their company."

"And your husband?" asked Thorin, who had his elbows resting on the table.

"Oh, yes. I enjoy _his_ company, too."

Thorin shook his head. "No, I mean..."

Menegilda raised an eyebrow at him, and only then did he seem to realize that she had been joking. He grinned crookedly, and Bilbo let out a little laugh; then Menegilda and Thorin looked over towards the door where he stood. Bilbo first focussed on Menegilda's bright smile, but soon his attention was drawn to Thorin, and their eyes locked for a few seconds before Bilbo tilted his head back towards the hall.

"Shall we get dinner on the table, then?" he asked.

Thorin rose to his feet and bowed slightly to Menegilda before following Bilbo to the pantry; and as they gathered together the meal that Bilbo had spent the afternoon preparing, Bilbo could not stop himself from studying the unusually pleased look on Thorin's face.

"Your mood appears to have improved a bit," he said to the Dwarf. "Has Menegilda managed to charm you over the course of a five-minute conversation?"

Thorin seemed to try to make his expression more stern, but he did not manage it well. Still, he said nothing, and as soon as the food had been set on trays, the pair returned to the dining room to find Menegilda nibbling on one of the tarts that Bilbo had put on the table earlier. Her cheeks reddened a touch, as if she was a bit embarrassed to be caught eating before dinner had been set out; but then she rubbed her hands together delightedly when she saw the roast chicken, tomato salad, and butter-coated boiled potatoes.

As soon as they were all seated and their plates were filled, they began chatting aimlessly. At first, it was mostly Bilbo and Menegilda doing the talking, about whatever came into their minds - from the weather, to the price of beans, to the likelihood of a new silo being built up at the Grange. Once in a while, though, Thorin would break in with something of his own to say, then he would quiet down for a while as the others went on. But as the meal and the conversation continued, Thorin began to speak up more and more; and by the time they had all finished eating, he was fully involved in almost everything that was being said.

"She is a midwife, then?" he asked, when the subject of Rorimac's mother had come up. "That _would_ explain why your husband was so eager to have her here before the birth."

"Oh, and she's such a wonderful woman!" said Menegilda, pushing her empty plate back. "We spent a lot of time together in Buckland, but I haven't gotten to see her in so long! It feels like years, though it's been only five months or so."

Bilbo grinned. "Mirabella is as lively as her son, as I recall," he said. "There's not so much of his father in Rory. I have to wonder how he'll fare when _his_ turn comes up to be Master of Buckland."

"He is in no hurry for that," said Menegilda, waving her hand. "He doesn't much like the idea of everyone coming to him with their troubles. He doesn't feel he'd do a very good job at it."

Thorin sat slowly back in his chair, and Bilbo pursed his lips.

"Why did you choose to move to Hobbiton, if you do not mind me asking?" said Thorin after a moment. "You seem to miss Buckland."

"I _do_ miss it," replied Menegilda. "But the Shire is lovely, and quite a bit slower in its pace, at least compared to the bustle across the Bridge."

The Dwarf nodded, picking up his wine-glass. "That is part of the reason I am here, as well."

"Oh? What is the other part?"

Thorin took a sip of wine, then smiled softly as he set the glass back down on the table. "The good company," he said, sparing Bilbo a glance. Silence fell for a few seconds, then Thorin turned again to Menegilda. "But I will not be here for long, I'm afraid. When my kinsmen come back through from the Blue Mountains, I will be rejoining them in their travels east."

Bilbo's heart sank. He hoped that this turn of the conversation would not lead to the reason why Thorin had come to Hobbiton in the first place; but right now he felt rather like a fly on the wall, and he could not figure a good place to speak up and change the subject.

"I have never been farther east than Buckland," said Menegilda. "Perhaps I will get out that way some time!"

"I would be happy to host you and your family if you ever came to Erebor," said Thorin. "But it is quite some distance away, and I have noticed that Hobbits do not tend to be fond of travel."

Menegilda soft brown curls bounced as she laughed. "Well, except for Bilbo, of course! And the Tooks, in general, I suppose!"

Bilbo scratched the back of his neck, then he rose to his feet and began to gather the dishes from before him. "Shall we retire to the drawing-room?"

"I think so, yes!" said Menegilda.

She pushed her chair back, grunting a little with the effort; but before Bilbo could set the plates down to help her stand, Thorin had already made his way around the table. He held his hand down to her; and though she seemed surprised by the gesture, she accepted his help and he pulled her easily to her feet.

"Thank you, Master Dwarf!" she said.

Thorin nodded and released her hand, and Bilbo could not help but smile. He had never seen Thorin quite like this, and it was a nice change - though in the back of his mind, he wondered if the shift in the Dwarf's behavior was because he feared that Menegilda might judge Bilbo poorly otherwise.

"Thorin, would you mind seeing Menegilda to the drawing-room?" he asked. "I'll be in once I have finished cleaning up."

"Oh! I would be happy to help you with that," said Menegilda, beginning to gather the silverware from the table.

"It would be best if you rested," said Thorin. "If Bilbo has need of help, then I will give it to him."

"I am with child, not _broken_."

Bilbo shook his head. "I think what Thorin is trying to say is that you should not be working yourself too hard. I don't think Rorimac would be happy to come back in a few days to find that you have already had the baby."

" _A few days_?" Thorin asked, his eyes widening; and though Bilbo feared at first that he was concerned about needing to help entertain for that time, the Dwarf's next words chased that fear away. "Are you due so soon? You should not be on your feet."

"My feet are fine," said Menegilda. "And I am sure this baby will not be showing himself before a week or two at least have gone by."

"Still, you are..."

"I am perfectly able to help out. Who do you think does the tidying up at my own home?"

Thorin cleared his throat and turned his eyes to Bilbo, who suppressed a snicker.

"Be that as it may, Menegilda, you're our guest," said Bilbo; then he paused when he saw the looks both were giving him. "You are _my_ guests," he corrected himself, "and I would not have you working yourself tired while you are here. Now, _both_ of you, off to the drawing-room so I can get this mess taken care of."

Menegilda and Thorin looked at one another, then she let out a resigned sigh and set the silverware back down on the table.

"Well, then," she said, tilting her head at the Dwarf. "If you would be so kind?"

Thorin motioned towards the door and Menegilda stepped out of the dining-room; then he gave Bilbo a tight-lipped smile before following her into the hall.

Bilbo then began clearing off the table, though he was having a hard time keeping his mind on the task at hand. It was nice to see Thorin so at-ease in the presence of someone that he had only just met, but it was also quite unusual. It was probably Menegilda's own friendly personality that was making the normally stoic Dwarf so relaxed and talkative. There was just something in the way she spoke and the way she carried herself that made people open up to her.

But though that was normally a good thing, it did make Bilbo worry a bit that their wandering conversations would lead to subjects that would pain Thorin; and so after he finished gathering the plates and silverware and glasses onto a tray, he walked with them to the door of the drawing-room, rather than taking them straight to the kitchen. There, next to the jamb and just out of sight of his guests, he stopped and listened in as they spoke.

"So, you are not certain, then?" asked Thorin.

"Well, and how could I be?" Menegilda returned. "But my mother always said that when your hair is fuller and you are more hungry for salty things than sweet, then you should expect a boy. In any case, I suppose I have at least a half a chance that it will be!"

A momentary silence fell before Thorin spoke up. "In the case of Dwarves, the chance for a girl child is much less."

"Is it?" asked Menegilda. "But then, now that I think about it, I have never met any Dwarf women. I always just supposed they didn't get out much."

"They _don't_ tend to travel much, no. But still, you may have met some Dwarf women and not known it. They look very much like our men, even down to the prevalence of beards."

"Oh, goodness!" said Menegilda. "I hope that I have not offended any by calling them _men_!" She lowered her voice. " _You_ are not a woman, are you?"

Thorin laughed out loud, and Bilbo smiled as he slipped away to the kitchen.

Because the party had been small, there were not many dishes to wash; and after he had finished up with them, he went to the dining-room so to wipe down the table. That also took very little time, and he soon found himself making his way to the drawing-room so to join Thorin and Menegilda. But though he had this time intended on stepping in and letting himself be known, he again stopped just out of sight when he heard them speaking, then he leaned close to the jamb.

"Rory talks a lot," said Menegilda. "Oh, my, does he talk a lot! But he never talks over me. He always listens, even when the subject I am on is not of particular interest to him. I think I was going on for about twenty minutes about _knitting_ last week, and he didn't seem bored at all, though he's never even picked up a set of needles in his life!"

"We could all use someone who will listen," said Thorin softly.

Bilbo moved closer to the door.

"Oh, yes," said Menegilda. "But I think it's just as nice to have someone you can be quiet with, and not worry about _having_ to make conversation, if you understand my meaning. Rory is both of those people for me!" She grunted, and Bilbo supposed she had shifted in her seat. "Have you someone like that, Mister Thorin?"

Thorin let out a heavy breath. "If you will excuse me for a moment..."

By the time Bilbo realized that the Dwarf was on his way out of the drawing-room, Thorin was already in the doorway. He stopped short and looked down at Bilbo, who felt his cheeks warming.

"I was... I just..." the Hobbit stuttered almost nervously, though he knew that he had not truly been _eavesdropping_ in his own home; then he hummed a bit before going on. "Perhaps we should get back to entertaining our guest."

Thorin nodded slightly, though he did not say anything about Menegilda being _Bilbo's_ guest and not his own, and Bilbo straightened his expression and forced a smile as the two of them walked into the room together. Menegilda was sitting in Thorin's armchair by the fire, and she greeted them with a tiny wave when they stepped near; and as soon as Bilbo was seated beside Thorin on the couch, he no longer had to force the smile.

Over the next hour or so, they spoke much, though they never lingered on one subject for long. What began as a review of the meal they had just enjoyed shifted to a mention of what was popular food in Buckland, then Thorin brought up some of the more interesting things he had eaten in his travels, and eventually the conversation came around to traveling, in general. After a while, the subject of Bilbo's return to the Shire was brought up; and of course, he did not fail to mention how Lobelia had gotten hold of his spoons at the auction.

Menegilda listened politely to the tale, then she gave Bilbo a little nod. "Well, by her own word, Lobelia doesn't care much for the Brandybucks," she said, "so I can't say that I have spent much time with her. I have seen her in passing, of course, and we once said _hello_ at the market in Bywater. But besides that..." She shrugged. "I don't know her well enough to speak of her, really... and certainly not enough to speak _ill_ of her."

Bilbo tightened his jaw. Honestly, he had never known Menegilda to speak ill of _anyone_ , but he felt that if she did get to know Lobelia, she might make an exception.

"Well, I know her quite well," he said before thinking it through. "And she's..."

He looked towards Thorin, then shut his mouth tight. _Dreadful_ was the word that he was going to use, but the memories of their walk in the Overhill Woods silenced him. For some reason, Thorin had not seemed quite happy with how he had spoken of Lobelia then, and he did not want to again make him so concerned.

"How well?" asked Menegilda.

Bilbo looked at her. "Hmm?"

"How well do you know Lobelia?" she asked. "Have you spent much time with her?"

Bilbo thought hard, but if he was going to be honest with himself, he did not know her quite so well, after all. He had never _wanted_ to get to know her, to find out what she thought about things. Not that Lobelia ever kept quiet on any subject, when she had the chance to speak about it. There was never a time that she had passed by him without tilting her chin up haughtily and voicing some complaint or another - and more often than not, those complaints had been about _him_.

"I don't suppose I _have_ spent much time with her," he admitted at last. "But I have spent _enough_."

Menegilda opened her mouth, and though it seemed to Bilbo that she wanted to say something, she instead shook her head and sighed. A moment later, her eyes lit up and she placed a hand on her belly.

"Is everything all right?" asked Bilbo

Thorin let out a quick laugh. "Is he pushing?"

"Yes!" said Meneglida. "How did you know?"

Bilbo turned from Menegilda to Thorin, then back again. " _Pushing?_ "

"I recognize the looked on your face," Thorin answered Menegilda. "Though I have not seen it in a long time."

"Oh? Do you have children, Mister Thorin?" she asked.

The question worried Bilbo, but he said nothing; and Thorin spoke up again.

"No, but when my sister was..." He paused, letting out a long breath. "When she was carrying her sons, they would push on her, and she would look just the same." He smiled faintly, then rubbed his palms together and lowered his head. "She looked startled, but happy. Very happy. Sometimes a bit annoyed."

Bilbo laid a hand on Thorin's arm. This was what he had been fearing - that some subject or other would come up that would bring back memories of Fíli and Kíli. But when the Dwarf lifted his face again, his smile had widened, though his eyes were welling up.

"Dís... that is, my _sister_ told me that they would wake her up at night sometimes," he went on. "Her elder son, Fíli was... he was the more active one. He punched and kicked and poked. She told me that Kíli was somewhat more _gentle_ , but for some reason that worried her. He was born small, but he grew fast." He blinked and the tears coursed down his cheeks and into his shortened beard. "I'm sorry," he said, wiping his face with the back of his hand. "I am not quite myself lately."

"Well, I don't know what _yourself_ is normally," said Menegilda kindly, "but I have been quite enjoying your company nonetheless." Her eyes widened again. "He is quite a little mover tonight. Would you like to feel?"

Thorin straightened his back. "Are you certain you would not mind?"

"I wouldn't offer if it bothered me. I have gotten used to it, really."

Thorin did not then hesitate in kneeling beside her chair; then he lifted his hand and let it hover over her belly. "Where is he?"

Menegilda took hold of his hand and guided it to her left side, then she let go and sat back. As Bilbo watched on curiously, Thorin spread his fingers out and stared at them; then at once, both Menegilda and the Dwarf smiled.

"He's a strong one," said Thorin.

"Goodness, yes!" Menegilda agreed. "How many nights he has woken Rory by kicking him in the back, I cannot say!" She beckoned Bilbo over. "Come and feel!"

Bilbo shook his head vigorously. "No... no, thank you."

"It's fine," said Menegilda. "Really, have you ever..?"

"Not really, no," said Bilbo; though the full truth was that he had never even held a baby, and he could not imagine himself touching the belly of a woman who was carrying one. "I don't think I should..."

"Bilbo!" said Menegilda, raising her voice slightly. "Just for once, _relax_."

Her tone was compelling, and Bilbo could not help but think that she had already acquired the right voice for motherhood. He moved to Thorin's side; and as the Dwarf drew his hand away, Bilbo tentatively raised his own. He placed his palm to her belly and moved it around, but he felt nothing.

"Am I doing this wrong?" he asked. "Did he go to sleep? Did I miss it?"

Thorin took hold of Bilbo's wrist and guided his touch to the left side of Menegilda's belly; then the Dwarf pressed down softly on the back of his hand. For several long seconds, Bilbo still felt nothing; then a little lump slid under his palm.

"What was that?" asked Bilbo excitedly. "A foot?"

Menegilda giggled. "Most likely," she said. "Or a knee or an elbow. Who can say, really? He gets around so much!"

The little lump shifted again, then slid off to the side, and Bilbo started to move his palm over to follow it, only then remembering that Thorin's hand was still on his own. But he did not mind at all, and his heart leaped when the baby poked at him once more.

"I've never felt that before," he said. "It's... _different_. How does it feel? I mean... for _you_?"

"Oh, like a twitch or a tickle," said Menegilda. "Or sometimes like I have eaten too much and my tummy is grumbling because of it! But, really, when I first felt him move, I thought a mouse had run under my dress!"

Bilbo laughed, then he turned to Thorin. The Dwarf's bright blue eyes were shifted down towards Menegilda's belly and there was a contented smile on his lips; and Bilbo realized suddenly that Thorin was rubbing his thumb softly over his wrist. His touch was gentle and pleasant, and Bilbo let himself be silent and enjoy it for several seconds; then he noticed that Menegilda's attention was on them, and he quickly pulled his hand away and stood.

"I suppose it is bedtime, then," he said, stretching and yawning affectedly.

Thorin rose slowly to his feet, nodding; then he held a hand down to Menegilda. "Would you allow me to show you to your room?" he asked almost formally.

She took hold of the offered hand, then he pulled her to standing. "I did not expect to be waited on so much here," she said. "I'm not used to it."

"Perhaps you should allow yourself to _relax_ ," said Bilbo, turning her own advice on her. "I am sure you will have plenty enough work to do when the baby arrives."

Menegilda rubbed her lower back, then turned towards the door. "I suppose so, yes," she said. "But I cannot simply sit still all of the time. It's not in my nature to be treated so royally."

Thorin and Bilbo grinned at one another, then stepped out into the hall, where Thorin offered her an arm for support. She accepted it gladly, though the guest-room was not far, and when they reached it Thorin stood back beside Bilbo as Menegilda laid her hand on the knob of the open door.

"Well, then," said Bilbo, "I hope that you have sweet dreams, Menegilda."

She patted her belly. "If _he_ will let me sleep at all!"

Thorin bowed slightly. "Goodnight," he said. "It has been a pleasure speaking with you this evening, and I look forward to the morning, that we might speak again."

"Likewise!" she returned. "Sweet dreams, both of you!" And with that, she stepped into the room and eased the door shut.

Thorin and Bilbo both smiled before turning around and walking across the hall, to Bilbo's own bedroom door. There they stopped and again focussed on each other's eyes; but after a few seconds, Thorin nodded to himself, as if he had just answered an imagined question.

"Goodnight, Bilbo," he said simply. "Rest well."

He spun around and started down the hall, but instead of going into his own room, he continued on past it and towards the drawing-room door.

"Are you not turning in?" asked Bilbo. "It's been quite a long day, and neither of us got much sleep last night."

The Dwarf stopped and glanced back over his shoulder. "I don't feel much like sleeping right now," he said. "I think I might relax and read for a bit, or maybe have a smoke."

Thorin then made his way into the drawing-room, and Bilbo looked into his own darkened bedroom.

He could hear rain patting against the window, and though the sound was soothing and he knew his bed was warm and soft, he was not quite sure that he was ready for sleep, himself. More likely, he would spend the next few hours tossing and turning while the night's conversations repeated themselves in his mind; then the next day would see him too tired to be much of a host. No, he thought, the better thing to do would be to try and occupy himself somehow, until he _was_ tired enough to sleep - perhaps with a smoke, and good company by the fire.

And so he made his way to the drawing-room, halting in the doorway and looking in at where Thorin was seated in his usual chair by the fireplace. But Thorin was not relaxing, was not reading, was not smoking; but rather, he was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his bare feet on the hearth. His head was bowed and his shoulders were shaking slightly, and though his eyes were tightly shut, the light from the flickering fire showed where his cheeks were wet with fresh tears.

Bilbo shifted uncomfortably from foot-to-foot, then walked to Thorin's side and placed a hand on his shoulder. The Dwarf made no move, and Bilbo took a deep breath; but before he could speak up, Thorin cleared his throat.

"I am glad I did not stay in my room this evening," he said. "The company was pleasant."

"The _company_ , but perhaps not the _conversation_ ," said Bilbo. "I'm sorry if what was spoken about tonight was upsetting to you."

Thorin looked up at him with reddened eyes. "May I ask you something?"

"Of course," said Bilbo, nodding.

"Have you been fearing to speak with me because of what happened in the woods?"

Bilbo's chest began to ache. "Yes, I suppose I have," he admitted. "But not _just_ because of what happened then. Whenever... _certain_ subjects come up, I have noticed how you fall quiet. I know you do not want to be thinking about..." The breath caught in his throat.

Thorin reached up and squeezed Bilbo's hand where it still rested on his shoulder, then he tightened his jaw before pulling his touch away and standing. He began pacing around the room, wringing his hands all the while, then he stopped in front of the fireplace and stared down into the flames.

"Grief has a sharp edge," he said, barely aloud. "It cuts easily and goes deep, but it dulls with use."

Bilbo shook his head; but before he could ask what that meant, Thorin continued.

"My father had that carved on my mother's tomb," he said. "I had forgotten about it, until I visited her grave after Erebor was reclaimed. I was young when she died, and I did not then understand death. I was confused, I was angry, I was sad... but I did not grieve." He turned to Bilbo. "When my brother and grandfather died at Khazad-dûm, I did not have time to grieve. There were great tasks before me, there was too much to be done, and my mind was occupied by those things that could not be pushed aside. The needs of my people came before my own mourning."

The ache in Bilbo's chest worked its way into his throat and he swallowed against it, unable to speak.

"But I understand those words now," Thorin went on. "I had them carved on... on the stone that now blocks the mine where Fíli and Kíli died. I tried to convince myself to take its message to heart, to use it. I tried to let myself grieve. I tried to tell myself that if I gave in to it, it would pass quicker. But I couldn't do it." He stepped over to Bilbo and lifted his hand; but though his fingers came close to touching the Hobbit's cheek, he instead lowered his touch to his shoulder. "But when you listened, when you let me say what I needed to say that night on your roof... it helped. I don't know why, but saying it out loud helped."

Bilbo tried to make himself smile, but he could not manage it; and though he knew that Thorin was waiting for him to speak up, to say something in response, Bilbo still could not bring himself to talk.

Thorin let out a long breath. "Please do not take my occasional reticence the wrong way, Bilbo," he said. "If ever I needed to hear Fíli and Kíli's names, or remember them as they were, it is now."

Bilbo's shoulders began to shake under Thorin's touch. He'd been doing it wrong... he'd been doing it all wrong. He'd been trying to keep their conversations pleasant, he'd been trying to keep the subject off of Fíli and Kíli, he'd been trying to give Thorin other things to think about - when what he should have been doing was letting Thorin go on for as long as he needed to, about whatever he needed to.

That was why Thorin had stayed in Hobbiton, that was why he hadn't gone back to Ered Luin - because Bilbo had simply listened to what he'd had to say, and Thorin had hoped that he would continue to do so. Thorin had told him so much in the woods; but though Bilbo had heard him, he hadn't understood. He'd instead focussed on how Thorin had behaved, how he had broken down - and he'd been trying so hard since then to keep it from happening again that he had failed to let Thorin do the very thing that he needed to.

I will always listen, Thorin. To anything you need to say, whenever you need to say it. And if you need silence, then I will give that to you, as well.

Bilbo had said it, but he hadn't done it. He'd broken that word, he'd gone back on his promise; he'd been so concerned about keeping the pain at bay now, that he hadn't thought of how much it would hurt later if it had been allowed to build. He'd been trying to stitch a wound shut, when it should have been allowed to close on its own - when it should have been allowed to bleed.

"I miss them, too," said Bilbo after a few ragged breaths. "I look around here and... I see them, and I remember how angry I got at them for tossing my dishes around." He laughed weakly. "My dishes. I was so worried that they would break them..."

Thorin placed his fingertips gently on Bilbo's wet cheek before turning around to the sofa; then he sat down and motioned for the Hobbit to join him. Bilbo did so without hesitation, and they stared into each other's eyes as a soft smile rose to Thorin's lips.

"Did I ever tell you about the time I caught them in my wine-cellar?" he asked.

Bilbo shook his head; and they linked fingers with one another as the Dwarf went on.

"They were really too young to be drinking, but they were not going to let that stop them..."


	4. Through The Pain

_Though Menegilda is doing her best not to let either Thorin or Bilbo know that she is in labor, Thorin turns out to be more perceptive than she thought - but she shows him how perceptive she can be, as well._

* * *

Menegilda's grip on her chair arm loosened as the tightening and pain in her belly eased, then she sighed and looked over at Thorin. All of his attention was on the book in his hand, as it had been since he'd settled in on the drawing-room sofa an hour or so ago; and Menegilda was thankful that he neither heard the sharp intake of her breath whenever a contraction began, nor noticed her sweaty brow whenever one ended.

This was her fourth morning in Bag End, and shortly after sunrise she had jerked awake to a sudden pain in her back - though she hadn't thought much about it at the time, since her whole body had been aching in recent days, anyway. The pain had slowly spread around her sides, and her belly had hardened a bit; then the sensations had let up, and she'd gotten out of bed and excitedly readied herself for Rorimac and Mirabella's arrival.

She had been enjoying her visit with Bilbo and Thorin, but she missed her husband greatly, and Mirabella was one of her favorite relations; and so, she had dressed herself in her finest white linen frock and put her hair up into a twisted braid, as she often did for special occasions. As she was packing her belongings away in her bag, however, her back had begun to ache again, then her stomach had hardened as before - and it was then that she had realized that the baby might just be ready to come.

But _she_ was not ready for him to come; not _yet_ , not until Rory and his mother were there. So she had laid back down on the soft feather mattress and tried to relax, hoping that the contractions would go away, as the false ones she'd been having over the last couple months had done. But they _hadn't_ gone away this morning, and in fact they had gotten a little worse; and when Bilbo knocked at her door and asked if she would like to join him and Thorin for breakfast, she had waited for the most recent one to pass, then she shuffled out of the guest-room and into the kitchen.

There, the three of them had enjoyed a fine meal, punctuated by cheerful and comfortable conversation; and Menegilda was grateful, at least, that neither of them had seemed to notice how she would stop eating and speaking for a few minutes whenever a contraction came on. She did not want to worry either of them, and so she did not mention the pain or pressure, or the slight panic that she was herself beginning to feel; but still, as breakfast neared its end and a particularly sharp contraction made her drop her spoon into her porridge, she offhandedly mentioned how she hoped that Rory and Mirabella would arrive sooner than the afternoon.

This had gotten Bilbo to asking what treats he should make for them, since he did not want to send them off empty-handed; and Menegilda had told him that, while Rory liked best a good fruited scone, Mirabella preferred a nice soft spice cake. For both, Bilbo said he would need honey, and his supply was frightfully low. Thorin offered to go and fetch it, but Bilbo had made some joke about _the strength of the rope_ , then said that he would go to get the honey on his own, if his guests did not mind him leaving them for a while.

They had both told him that they would be fine, and so he had headed out not long after breakfast with an empty honey-crock tucked into a satchel, while Thorin and Menegilda moved on to the drawing-room. But though they had come into the habit of speaking much with one another over the last few days, they were not doing so today. Instead, they were seated in silence while he read and she did her best to work on the blanket she was crocheting for the baby. She could only get anything done on it between contractions, though; and as this most recent one eased, she stretched, hummed softly to herself, and pulled some more yarn off the skein.

Thorin lifted his eyes to her, and she nodded and smiled and said nothing; then the Dwarf glanced up at the clock on the mantlepiece, as he had done many times since Bilbo had left. He shifted his bare feet on the floor a bit, then grunted and went on reading; but after a few silent seconds, he spoke up.

"Eight minutes," he said simply.

Menegilda raised her eyebrows. "Hmm? What's that again?" she asked. "Are you timing Bilbo's return to the minute?"

It did not surprise her, really, to see how eager he was for Bilbo to get back, as she had noticed quite early in her visit how close they were. In fact, two out of the four mornings that she had been there, she had woken to find them asleep on the drawing-room sofa together; and while the other two mornings they had been awake before her, she still got the feeling that they had not left one another's sides all evening.

But Thorin just smiled softly and shook his head. "Your pains," he clarified, flipping a page in his book. "They are beginning every eight minutes."

Menegilda's cheeks began to warm and she set the crocheting down on her lap. "You can tell?"

His smile shifted into a crooked grin as he looked up at her, but he said nothing.

"Well, why did you not say anything sooner?" She shook her finger at him. "You would have saved me a lot of trouble in trying to hide it!"

He let out a quick laugh. "You were trying to _hide_ it?"

"Oh, what am I going to do with you?" she asked, mock-scoldingly. "And here I was thinking I could keep you from worrying."

Thorin shrugged slightly. "I'm not worried, really," he said, turning his eyes again to his open book. "I have seen this before, and I believe it will be a long while before the baby is ready to come. Hours, at least, since he is your first child."

Menegilda began to crochet again, though she was now having even more trouble concentrating. "Yes, I believe so, too," she said. "At least, I _hope_ so. From what Mirabella and my mother have told me, the first baby usually takes some time." She squirmed uncomfortably in her seat. "Though, I cannot imagine how much worse the pain may be by then. Or after!"

"That, I cannot say," said Thorin. "But if you have need of anything, just ask. Water, food, silence, conversation... whatever it is you need, simply say so. Whatever gives you comfort. I know that birthing a child is no easy task. Well, from what I have been told, anyway, and what I have seen."

"What I could really use right now is a midwife to talk me through this," she admitted, unraveling the yarn to where she had skipped a stitch earlier in the row. "To make sure I am doing it right."

"At this point, I don't think there is much you could do _wrong_ ," said Thorin. "I think the best you could do for yourself and your child right now is _rest_ , if you want him to wait until your husband and his mother arrive. But you see now why I suggested you not work yourself too hard when you got here. If you had done so, the baby may have come even sooner."

She squinted at him. "Are you _certain_ you are not a woman?" she joked. "I have never known a man who was comfortable speaking so openly about this subject."

"Then you have, perhaps, not spoken to as many Dwarf men as you claim," Thorin returned with a smile. "We do not tend to shy away from such things, and I have actually been at several births, myself."

" _You_ are not a midwife, by chance?"

Thorin closed his book and set it down on the sofa beside him. "I'm afraid not," he said. "I have one amongst my kin, however, and he has attended the births of many Dwarf children, his nephews and mine included. But he is in Ered Luin at the moment, and I myself have no skill such as his."

"Oh, that is a shame," said Menegilda, stiffening up as another pain began in her lower back. "It would have been an honor to have my child delivered by a king..."

She bit her lip gently, wishing she had not spoken that thought out loud; then she looked over to see that Thorin's mouth was gaping and his brow was furrowed.

"I'm afraid I don't understand," he said unconvincingly.

The contraction grew worse; and she closed her eyes and held the crocheting hard to her belly. She was not sure if allowing the pain to show on her face was making it hurt any less than trying to hide it had, but it was at least a slight relief that she did not have to pretend that it was not there; and when Thorin's hand came to rest on her arm, she forced herself to look up to where he was standing next to her. His keen eyes were narrowed and his mouth shut tight, but despite his stern expression, his nearness and touch was soothing - and so he remained by her side until the contraction ended and her grip on the blanket loosened.

She sat back, fighting for breath and shaking her head. "Help me to the sofa, would you please?" she said, laying her crocheting on the side-table. "I think this chair is beginning to make my back ache a bit worse than it needs to right now."

Thorin pulled her easily to standing, then he slid his arm around her back and guided her to the sofa; and there he pushed the book aside and they both sat down, then he stared at Menegilda for a few seconds before she at last spoke up.

"I did not intend on saying your secret aloud," she said. "I promise that I will not speak it again. I have no right, after all, to let others know what you yourself are trying so hard to keep close to the vest."

"I don't know what..." Thorin began; then he shut his mouth tight, as if he thought better of what he was going to say.

Menegilda let out a long breath. "It's fairly well-known that Bilbo went east with a group Dwarves some time back," she said. "He made no mystery of that."

"That in itself is not such an unusual," said Thorin, nodding. "He has many friends, among many races, and from many different walks of life."

"Oh, yes," said Menegilda. "As the Tooks tend to. But after his return, people began saying that he had brought back treasure of some sort, and... well, I do not listen to rumors, but he fairly confirmed it when he began to give so much more freely for birthdays and other celebrations. He gave to me and Rory three Dwarvish gold coins, in fact, when he heard that I was with child."

"That was a fine gift," said Thorin.

Menegilda began straightening the wrinkles on her dress. "He told us that it was so we might buy new furnishings for the baby," she said. "But Rory has a good mind for the value of metal, and he figured that beyond furnishings, it might even be enough to buy an entire free-standing home."

Incredulity rose into Thorin's eyes. "Is gold worth so much here?"

"Not _here_ , no," said Menegilda. "Folk in the Shire much prefer to trade for what they need, and the greatest value here is given to those things that can be eaten or worn, or that will make life more of a comfort. In Buckland, money matters a bit more, though, since there is much business there with the big folk that live throughout Breeland. But in any case, we have not spent the gold, nor have we any plans to do so just yet. At a point, Rory may take it up to Bree for such goods as we might need as the winter nears, but for now it is safe in our home, awaiting its use."

Thorin stared into the softly-glowing fire. "The value of the gold aside," he said, "Bilbo's possession of it does not mean that he is... or has _ever_ been in the company of a _king_."

"Your name is common amongst Dwarves, then?"

His cheeks seemed to redden under his whiskers, but he did not reply.

Another contraction began and Menegilda tightened her jaw. "Rory mightn't remember where he heard of you," she said, trying to talk through the pain, "but I knew from the moment I..."

She felt sweat forming on her brow as the ache worked its way around her sides, then her belly tensed and she dug her fingernails into the sofa cushion. Bending forward, she squeezed Thorin's knee with her other hand, and he patted her wrist gently. For a long minute they remained like that, then the contraction ended and she turned to Thorin.

"Many Dwarves came through Buckland last year," she said, though she was having trouble speaking. "And they all did so with one name on their lips: _Thorin_ , who they said was now king of some place away east called _Erebor_. Though some said it was _Lonely Mountain_. I rather prefer that name, though it does sound somewhat sad."

"And what makes you think that the _Thorin_ they spoke of and I are one and the same?" the Dwarf asked, his voice low.

Menegilda folded her hands over her belly. "Are you not?" she asked, though she did not wait for an answer. "I have to admit that I was a bit confused, at points. Bilbo introduced you as being from Erebor, but then you spoke of being from the Blue Mountains... _Ered Luin_ , I suppose. Since then, though, you have spoken enough about your travels and your life, that I suspect you must be from _both_ places, in a way."

The muscles in Thorin's neck tensed. "I have family in both Ered Luin and Erebor," he said. "Though most of my kin _are_ now in the east." His eyes darted back and forth, then he let out a resigned breath. "But, supposing what you said is true... supposing I am _nobility_ , why did you not say something sooner?"

"What _should_ I have said?" asked Menegilda. "If you wanted people to know, then you would not be tucked away in this quiet place. I would not have said anything, myself, had I not been... well, _distracted_. But I should tell you, anyway, that there are rumors going around that you are royalty of some sort, so it might not be as great a secret as you hoped it would be."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "I thought that you shied away from rumoring."

"Just because I am not prone to gossip, it does not mean that people do not whisper such things to me in passing," she told him. "But I know very well that if you wanted people to be aware of who you are, then you would have told them, yourself. And I don't expect you would do that, because your peace would be broken. What rest could you get, then? With curious Hobbits hanging about at the foot of the Hill, waiting for a glimpse of royalty?"

"You sound like one who knows something of that life," said Thorin softly.

Menegilda lowered her head in a slight nod. "Rory may only be the son of someone so simple as the Master of Buckland, but still he did not get much peace around Brandy Hall," she said. "I suppose people were just trying to get in his good graces, but it was really rather disquieting to have people calling on him at all hours, for whatever reasons they could figure."

"So, the _slower pace_ you and your husband left Buckland for was rather an escape from the pressures?"

"For _my_ sake," said Menegilda; then she continued on through gritted teeth as another contraction began. "My own family is small and rural... I was not used to being surrounded by so many. Rory and Mirabella felt it would be best for me to be elsewhere until after..."

Her words caught in her throat and she hunched over, clutching at her belly as it hardened; and somewhere past the pain, she felt Thorin rubbing her lower back. He kneaded his fingertips gently into her muscles, and she grabbed his other hand and squeezed it.

"Such a tight grip," he said, laughing softly, "from such a delicate hand."

Menegilda smiled despite the pain; then she closed her eyes and just let herself breathe until the pangs eased and her belly relaxed. Thorin removed his touch from the small of her back and slid a pillow behind her, and she loosened her grip on his hand; then his expression grew distant, and she cleared her throat softly.

"We will not be in Hobbiton for long," said Menegilda, acutely aware of the shaking in her voice. "Rory has responsibilities at Brandy Hall, and whether he is looking forward to them or not, he is determined that they will not go undone." She eyed Thorin curiously. "And what of you? How long will you be staying in the Shire?"

He turned to her suddenly, as if she had shaken him from a daydream. "Only until my kin come back through in a month or so," he said, his own voice uneven. "I have thought once or twice about meeting them in Ered Luin before then... but each time I have decided to stay here a little longer."

"And for that, I don't blame you," said Menegilda. "I have seen how close you and Bilbo are. It is good for him, I think, to have you around. Good for _both_ of you, really. But... you do not strike me as the kind of person who would long leave his responsibilities behind for the sake of _good company_."

"My... _responsibilities_ have been taken over by others for the time being, until..."

The words failed on his lips; then he sighed and stood and walked over to the fireplace. There, he gripped the edge of the mantlepiece and hung his head.

"Until your mourning time has ended?" she asked.

The Dwarf nodded; and Menegilda hesitated for a moment, weighing her next words before she went on.

"It is for your nephews that you are in mourning?"

He shut his eyes. "I suppose have spoken about them a few times."

"More than _a few_ ," said Menegilda.

In truth, he had mentioned them so often-and with such emotion-that she had long suspected that something had happened to them. She knew by now their names, their ages, their preferred weapons, how different they looked from one another, their favorite food and drinks, and the songs they had sung as children. But always, _always_ he spoke of them as if they were in the past; and though she wondered what had become of them, she had never thought it was her place to ask.

She knew, at least, that he must have talked to Bilbo about them much more often, which was a good thing. It was clear that Bilbo had also known them; and it was perhaps that shared grief that had brought him and Thorin so close to one another - although she wasn't going to discount the possibility that they had already been close before.

"I needed time away," said Thorin, breaking into her thoughts. He stepped to the sofa and sat again, then stared down at his open hands. "They... Fíli and Kíli had a great number of friends, and they were... they were _loved_ by so many. Their loss was _grieved_ by many." He looked at her. "But if I had stayed in Erebor, then my people would have had to suffer through _my_ grief, as well. And mine is... more _lasting_."

Almost without her noticing, another contraction began. She hunched over, grimacing, and Thorin again rubbed the small of her back as she breathed through the pain.

"When I was young, our homeland was taken from us," he continued as she struggled to listen. "My grandfather was... he was _devastated_ by the loss of..." He paused, and his hand stilled on Menegilda's back. "A great many of our people died, and he could not... for a long time, he could not set his mind at ease. He could not shoulder both the burden of rule, and the memory of what was gone. My father, at that time, took his place leading our people, until my grandfather could again stand firmly before them."

Thorin fell silent, then resumed rubbing Menegilda's back as the pain and pressure of her contraction eased. She sat back and breathed in deeply; but before she could say anything, Thorin went on speaking.

"Many long years from now, I will still be mourning Fíli and Kíli in my way," he said, fixing her with a gentle stare. "I know the pain of their loss will always remain... but I think that when I return to my people, I will now be strong enough to stand before them. Though perhaps not as strong as I was when my nephews were by my side."

Menegilda smiled softly at him. "And will you be standing alone?"

"I have kin, close as brothers," said Thorin. "Whatever may come, they will be there for me. They always have been."

"And have you anyone _beyond_ kin?"

He furrowed his brow. "What do you mean?"

Once more, she wished she had thought better before speaking; but now, she felt obligated to go on. "I mean... have someone that you might also turn to, other than family and old, old friends?" she said. "I do not know how friendships might be for Dwarves, or for _royalty_ , for that matter, but I have found that sometimes it helps to have someone to speak with that you haven't known for all your life. Someone that you might always learn something new about, to take your mind away from the troubles that are weighing you down."

His eyes widened and he lowered his face. "I might, perhaps, have someone that I could call on in times such as those."

Menegilda smiled. It was not so hard to tell, after all, who Thorin might consider clinging to if ever he fell. Whenever he and Bilbo looked at one another, it was with the same glint of affection that she had seen in Rory's eyes when he looked at _her_. There were, in fact, many things that she had seen Thorin and Bilbo do that reminded Menegilda of herself and her husband - from the way Bilbo would always give Thorin a taste from the pot when he was cooking, to how they leaned towards one another when they were speaking, to how they would always either sit close enough to one another to touch, or else directly across from one another so that their eyes could meet.

The silence between Menegilda and Thorin continued until another contraction began; and once more, he soothed her through it with his presence and his hand on her back. Slowly, the pain eased and she leaned back against the sofa again, and as she was gathering her thoughts and catching her breath, the front door squeaked open.

Thorin smiled wide, but when Bilbo stepped into view in the doorway to the drawing-room, the Dwarf's expression straightened. Bilbo did not look happy, he did not look well. He was grimy and sweaty, and his left sleeve was pulled up, revealing several red welts on his skin. Thorin stood suddenly, though he did not step away from the sofa.

"Are you hurt?" he asked.

Bilbo waved him off. "I'm fine, I'm fine," he said, grinning crookedly. He pulled his satchel off of his shoulder and held it up. "I got plenty of comb, even if the bees did not care for my intrusion. It'll take me a while to extract the honey, but I'll have a fair bit when I'm done. Enough for the baking, and some for tea later, I'm sure."

"Do you need any help?" asked Menegilda. In truth, she was getting a bit tired of sitting, and she was eager to do something other than be in labor. "With your stings, at least, if not the honey?"

Bilbo shook his head. "No, I'll be fine. They're not so bad, actually." He focussed on Thorin. "Have you been enjoying one another's company while I've been gone?"

"Yes," said Thorin, nodding slightly. "Quite."

They stared at one another for a long while, until at last Bilbo seemed to notice that Menegilda was watching them. He cleared his throat and stepped away from the door, and Thorin again sat down beside her.

"Does he usually get stung so badly?" she asked.

"No," said Thorin, still looking towards the door. "This is the first I have seen him run afoul of the bees, to be honest. Though he said it has happened before."

"At least he knows how to treat the stings, then."

"He told me that _Lobelia_ helped him with that once." He drew his eyebrows together. "He told me that she did a fine job treating them."

Pleasant warmth rose in Menegilda's chest. It was nice to hear that Bilbo had said _something_ kind about Lobelia. "My mother told me that Lobelia's father was an apothecary," she said after a moment. "It makes sense that she would pick up on some of his skill."

"What, do you suppose, is the trouble between them?" asked Thorin, looking into her eyes. "Between Bilbo and Lobelia, I mean. I have to believe that it has to do with more than just _spoons_."

Menegilda scratched the back of her neck. She _had_ heard rumors that their dislike of one another had been rather more a _falling-out_ , since it was generally agreed upon that Bilbo and Lobelia had once been on good terms; but Menegilda never put much truck in gossip, and she was certainly not going to perpetuate _tales_ \- though it was a little difficult to ignore the baying of the rumor-mongers.

"I cannot say," she said after a few seconds. "It is Bilbo you should ask. Or _Lobelia_ , though I think you might not be inclined to speak with her... or _her_ with _you_ , I imagine."

Thorin started tapping his fingers thoughtfully on the sofa cushion. "Do you think that perhaps Lobelia has had a part in the rumoring about my own... _situation_?"

"For her to tell someone that Bilbo is in the company of royalty would make him seem better rather than worse, I think," said Menegilda with a shrug. "If her goal _was_ to discredit him, then I cannot see her spreading that around. But, again, she would be the one to ask. I cannot speak for her."

" _Nobody_ can really speak for another, I suppose," returned Thorin. "But that does not seem to keep people from doing so."

"Well, rumors do fly, and it is often hard to avoid them, even when you'd rather not get involved. I think, really, there is something about gossip that makes a person want to tell it most to those who prefer not to hear it."

Thorin opened his mouth as if he had something to say, then he shut it tight. Soon, another contraction began, and the Dwarf gripped Menegilda's hand and rubbed her back through it; and when it ended, to her embarrassment a moan escaped her lips. Thorin gave her a tight-lipped smile, but before either of them could speak again, there came a loud ring from the door.

"I'll get it!" Bilbo called out from somewhere down the hall.

Thorin and Menegilda watched as he rushed past the drawing-room, and moment later, the front door was opened. A chorus of familiar, happy voices drifted down the passageway; and without needing to be asked, Thorin helped Menegilda to standing, then they made their way to the drawing-room door and watched on as Bilbo greeted his guests.

To Menegilda's surprise and delight, there were _three_ people on the step. Rory and Mirabella were there of course, but behind the elder Hobbit lady stood her daughter, Primula. The tween had her hands folded demurely in front of her, though she was bouncing almost excitedly on her toes, and her eyes were wide and joyful. Menegilda's heart leaped. She had not expected Rory's sister to be there, but she was so happy that she had come, as she was a dear friend - and she was the person who had introduced Menegilda to Rory in the first place, so it seemed only right that she should now be there for the birth.

Mirabella herself was all decked-out in her traveling-shawl and a wide sun-bonnet, and as everyone watched on, she bounded into the house and wrapped her arms around Bilbo, pulling him into a sudden and fierce hug.

"Bilbo! I haven't seen you in ages!" she said, squeezing him tightly. She let go and stepped back, holding him at arms-length. "How have you been? I heard you died!"

"Uh... no," said Bilbo, shaking his head. "That didn't happen."

Mirabella let go of him and clapped her hands together. "Oh, that's good!" she said. "Enough about you, though. Where is my darling girl? Where is my Gilda?"

Thorin and Menegilda shared a quick glance, then they stepped fully into the passageway. Mirabella's eyes widened when she saw her daughter-in-law, then she pushed quickly past Bilbo and rushed to the younger lady, pulling her near and kissing her on the cheek.

"Oh!" exclaimed Mirabella. "Oh, it is so nice to see you! I've missed you terribly!"

"I've missed you, too," said Menegilda, kissing her back. "It's been too long!"

They hugged one another tightly, and Menegilda smiled up at Rory as he also hurried to her side; but Mirabella pushed him away a bit, then shook her finger at him.

"Oh, no you don't!" she said. "Not yet! I haven't seen my Gilda in ages, and you've had your turn for months now!"

Rory looked almost shocked, but Bilbo and Primula chuckled. At last Mirabella pulled out of the hug and looked Menegilda up and down.

"Well, now!" she said. "We're just in time, I suppose! How far apart are they?"

Menegilda turned to Thorin, who pressed his lips into a tight smile. Meneglida did not know why she hadn't expected Mirabella to notice that she was already in labor - she was, after all, quite a skilled midwife. Bilbo, on the other hand, had likely never seen a lady in such a state, and he narrowed his eyes as he looked from face-to-face.

"How far apart are _what_?" he asked.

Thorin tilted his head slightly, then he answered Mirabella. "Eight minutes."

"Oh, good," said Mirabella. "Gives us time to get home and get settled." Then her eyes flitted back up towards Thorin. "Oh! Hello, there! You're quite tall, aren't you?"

"Wait..." said Bilbo. "I'm sorry, but _what_...?"

Rorimac let out a little squeal, then started jumping up and down. "Today?" he asked, then he threw his arms around his wife and pulled her near. "Today! Oh, I'm so glad we didn't stay at the inn for breakfast this morning!"

Realization rose into Bilbo's eyes and his mouth fell open, and he glanced at Menegilda's belly before turning to Rory. "I was... just..." he began haltingly, rubbing his stung arm. "I was going to make some scones and spice cake for you folks, but I suppose I can bring them over later."

"Wonderful idea!" said Primula, placing her hand on Menegilda's shoulder, even as Rory tightened his hug. "I _have_ missed your cooking, Bilbo!"

Yet another contraction began, and Menegilda leaned harder into her husband's arms; but it took only a moment for Mirabella to notice what was happening and she began rubbing Menegilda's back, as Thorin had been doing earlier. Beside them, Bilbo stammered a bit; then he cleared his throat almost nervously.

"Um... Mirabella, Primula..." he said. "I'd like you to meet my good friend, Thorin Oakenshield."

" _Oakenshield_?" asked Mirabella, looking first at the Dwarf, then at her son. " _Oakenshield_..? Now where have I heard..?" She snapped her fingers. "Oh, yes! Some Dwarves were asking after you last month! Well, anyway, they said some... _birds_ of some sort were..."

"Crows, Mother!" exclaimed Primula.

" _Ravens_ ," Thorin corrected her quickly, his voice tempered by slight distress.

" _Crows_ , _ravens_... I can never tell them apart!" said Mirabella. "Anyway Mr. Oakenshield, they were asking if you and a couple other Dwarf folks had come through Buckland any time recently. I can't quite remember who the others were that they wanted, though. I'm just not good with names! But _Oakenshield_... well, that's not just a _name_ , strictly speaking. It's words, isn't it? _Oaken_ and _Shield_. I guess that's why it stuck with me. And, anyway, there aren't many Dwarves I've ever met with _two_ names!"

Menegilda's contraction eased as the others were speaking, and as the pain dwindled she focussed on Thorin's agitated face.

"It is not common, no," he said.

"Why didn't you tell us he was here, Rory?" asked Primula.

"I told you about him on the way," said Rorimac. "Remember?"

"You told us only that Bilbo had a Dwarf for a houseguest," said Mirabella. "You never told us his name."

"Well, I'd forgotten it!" admitted Rory.

"And..." Thorin began; then he paused as Bilbo shifted closer to him. "May I ask what message they had for me?"

"I don't actually know," Mirabella told him, glaring at her son out of the corner of her eye. "Though if Rory had told me that you were here, I might have brought it to you! But as it is, you might want to send to Buckland, so that you might find out for yourself. Delayed, I suppose, but better late than never! In the meantime, we need to get my dear Gilda home and settled, and ready to have this baby!"

"I have already packed," said Menegilda.

Bilbo nodded, then rushed off down the hallway towards the guest-room where she had been staying, while Thorin made his way back into the drawing room; and very soon they both returned - Bilbo with her bag in his grip, and Thorin with Menegilda's crocheting. The Dwarf slipped the blanket and yarn into the bag, then Bilbo handed it off to Rory, who slung it over his shoulder before gripping his cousin's hand.

"Thank you so much," said Rory. He appeared to be getting more anxious by the moment, and he began to shake Bilbo's hand with great vigor. "You've been so wonderful! Such a help!" They let go of one another and Bilbo stumbled back, then Rory slapped him affectionately on the left arm - apparently not noticing the stings. "If ever I can do anything for you, just ask! Just ask!"

"It was not a problem," said Bilbo, grimacing. "We both quite enjoyed Menegilda's company."

Menegilda reached out and hugged Bilbo tightly. "And I yours," she said, smiling.

She let him go and turned to Thorin; and though she hesitated a bit for fear that he might not accept it, she found that she could not help but hug him, as well. He laughed and returned the embrace, then they released one another and Menegilda shifted around towards the door.

"Certainly bring those scones and the cake over later!" said Primula as she guided her sister-in-law over the threshold.

"We will," Bilbo replied. "I've got to extract the honey before I get any baking done, though."

"Hurry it up, then!" said Mirabella. "You've gotten me looking forward to it already!"

Rory came up on the other side of Menegilda, and together they made their way down the path, and Mirabella grabbed the bag from her son and rushed on ahead. As they got to the wagon, Rory let go of his wife's arm so to help his mother up; and Menegilda peered back over her shoulder towards the door to Bag End, where Bilbo and Thorin were standing, predictably, by one another's sides.

As she watched on, Thorin leaned over and spoke to the Hobbit, who offered a slight nod in return. Then they both waved at Menegilda before stepping back inside and shutting the door behind them.


	5. Reputation

_The baking is done, but it is too soon to bring the scones and cake over to Menegilda's home just yet; and so Bilbo and Thorin fall into conversation with one another, but it is not a conversation that Bilbo wanted to have._

* * *

In the three or so hours since Menegilda and the others had left, Thorin and Bilbo had kept themselves quite busy - though Bilbo was certainly the busier of the pair. He hadn't sat down at all in that time, but had hurried about the kitchen, skillfully mixing and measuring ingredients, and generally making certain that everything was _just right_ ; while Thorin, for the most part, stood off to the side and waited for instruction, whether it be passing Bilbo spices or greasing the pans or checking on the temperature of the oven fire.

As the rushing began to slow, however, Bilbo insisted on finishing up the cleaning himself, and so Thorin settled down into his usual chair at the table as the Hobbit went about it. But although they'd managed to keep the conversation centered around their baking until then, the slowed pace let them slip into quiet thought; and the cleaner the kitchen got, the more Bilbo began to worry about Menegilda and the baby - until, at last, he felt the need to break the silence.

"When do you suppose we should bring them over?" he asked at last, trying to sound relaxed as he wiped down the sideboard for the third time.

But the reply he was waiting for from Thorin never came, and he looked over his shoulder to see the Dwarf with his arms folded on the tabletop and his eyes staring down at the honey-crock before him - apparently having gotten himself lost in thought, to the point where it didn't seem as if he had heard Bilbo at all.

"Thorin?"

"Hmm?" said Thorin, looking up. "Sorry? What was that?"

"When do you suppose we should bring them over?" Bilbo repeated.

"When should we bring _what_ where?"

"The scones and the cake," Bilbo clarified, draping the dish-towel over his shoulder as he stepped to the table and sat down. "When do you think we should bring them over to Rory and Menegilda's place? I'd hate to get there too early, and show up in the middle of... well, in the middle of something _important_."

Thorin lifted an eyebrow. "In the middle of the _birth_ , you mean?"

"Well... yes. How long do you figure it will be before they're... before _she_ is done?"

"I cannot say," Thorin told him, jerking his shoulder in what might have been a shrug. "It could be that the baby has already arrived, but there is much more to childbirth than just the delivery."

"Is there, really?" asked Bilbo; then he cleared his throat. "Well, of course there is! So, I guess we should wait a few more hours, then? Go after dark?"

"Or just before."

Bilbo let out a long breath as he glanced around the now very-clean kitchen. "What shall we do in the meantime, then?" he asked. "We've been cooped up in here for hours already, and I don't really feel like staying in for what's left of such a beautiful day. Perhaps we could go for a walk?" He began tugging absently on the end of the towel that was still draped over his shoulder. "Do you suppose it would be too intrusive if we headed out towards Menegilda's place and... well, _listened_ a bit from the outside? Then we might learn whether or not it is a good time to bring dessert over."

A small smile rose to Thorin's lips. "Are you so worried about Menegilda that you would _eavesdrop_ on her?"

"I suppose so, yes," admitted Bilbo; then he let go of the towel and dropped his stung arm to the table - though it hit a little too hard, making him jump and grimace at the shock of pain. "I mean, _no_!" he said, curling his fingers into a fist. "Not the _eavesdropping_ part. But I _am_ a little worried about her, anyway. Are _you_ not worried?"

Thorin slid his hand under Bilbo's wrist. "I am sure Menegilda and the baby are fine," he said. "Though Rorimac will, perhaps, _not_ be doing so well. I have seen more than one new father who could not make it through the birth without passing out."

"Really?" said Bilbo, relaxing his fingers. "But it has only been _Dwarf_ births you have attended, hasn't it? Are you... that is to say, are Dwarf men truly so sensitive to such things?"

"You might be surprised at how easily we can falter when someone we care about is in pain," said Thorin, frowning down at the sings. "Especially when there is nothing we can do to take that pain away."

Bilbo shook his head and smiled faintly, not at all surprised that Thorin was still concerned about his arm. The Dwarf had, after all, asked several times over the course of their busy afternoon if they might take a moment to treat the stings; though each time, Bilbo had waved him off and told him that it could wait just a little while longer. But though _a_ _while longer_ had at first meant until after the honey was extracted, Bilbo had then put it off until after the baking was done, and then until after the cleaning was finished; and so, eventually, Thorin had stopped asking.

Still, after the ingredients for the scones had been set out, Thorin offered to mix and roll and cut them, himself. The request was quite unexpected, since he'd never before shown any interest in baking; but Bilbo guessed that the reason he wanted to do so this time was because he did not want Bilbo's arm to be in even greater pain while working the heavy dough. And in any case, the help had been greatly appreciated, as the stings _did_ hurt quite a bit; though by now they were quite old, and Bilbo felt that it would be a useless effort to try treating them at all.

"I'm fine, you know," he said, shrugging. "I've been through worse. Much worse."

"That does not mean you should suffer without need. Is there _anything_ I can do for you?"

"I don't think so. Not unless you can go back in time and stop me from slipping on the branch. I don't suppose I told you that was how it happened, did I? I slipped, and I grabbed the board on the front of the hive to keep myself from falling. I don't think the bees cared very much for me knocking so hard on their front door."

Thorin furrowed his brow. "I should have gone with you. This mightn't have happened."

"The branch would still have been slippery if you had been there. And I don't think you would have wanted to leave Menegilda on her own here, anyway. In fact, it was a good thing that you _didn't_ , or else she'd have gone through labor alone."

"I suppose you're right," said Thorin, easing his hand out from under Bilbo's wrist, then patting it softly. "Though for a while she was trying to hide it from me. And I believe she would have _continued_ trying to hide it until her husband arrived, if I had not mentioned it."

Bilbo let out a little laugh. "Well, that is like her to try and not worry someone! Though I am a bit surprised that she thought you wouldn't notice."

" _You_ did not seem to notice before you left to get the honey, so perhaps she wasn't doing such a poor job hiding it, after all."

"She was in labor even then?" asked Bilbo, his eyes widening. "Well, now that I think about it, she did seem a bit on edge this morning, but I just figured that was because she was eager for Rory's return! But, well... she didn't eat much for breakfast, did she? I thought that was odd."

Thorin nodded. "I think, perhaps, what you will miss most about her being here is the need to make larger meals," he said. "You do love that, I know. Cooking for more than one person, I mean. Cooking for a crowd."

"Well, you should know by now how social Hobbits tend to be. And there really is little that brings us together quicker than a meal!"

"And yet..." Thorin began; then he seemed to think better of what he was going to say and shut his mouth tight.

" _And yet_ what?" pressed Bilbo.

Thorin looked into his eyes; but he said nothing, and Bilbo went on.

" _You_ miss Menegilda, as well, even if you are not very worried about her. The two of you spoke with one another quite often, I noticed. More often than either of you did with me, at points!"

"I would be lying if I said I did not enjoy having her here," said Thorin, taking gentle hold of Bilbo's hand. "But I would also be lying if I said I have not been looking forward to being alone with you again."

Bilbo's chest warmed pleasantly and he ran his thumb over Thorin's knuckles. "Well, her being here certainly livened things up for a bit," he said. "But I suppose it won't be so difficult to get back to relaxing, rather than entertaining. Back to smaller meals, and more peace and quiet, and less needing to guard our words so not to give too much away! It will, at least, be a pleasure not having to keep our talk to whispers at night, when the subject turns to your family in Erebor."

After a few seconds of silently staring into Bilbo's eyes, Thorin rose to his feet, briefly tightening his grip on the Hobbit's hand before letting go and making his way to the open window. "I have actually been meaning to speak with you about that," he said, placing his fingertips to the side of the cake-pan cooling on the sill. "Some things have come to light, and it is possible that the _guarding of our words_ may have been for nothing. Though I do not believe that will be such a bad thing, in the long run."

The warmth in Bilbo's chest turned suddenly to an ache. "What do you mean?" he asked as he stood and stepped over to Thorin's side. "Is this about what Mirabella said? About the Ravens' message? It could be nothing, you know. It could be that they were simply sent out to relieve Balin and Dwalin's worries about where you and the others had gotten off to."

"I believe that _is_ the case," said Thorin. "I am certain that my kin in Erebor will be able to handle for themselves most troubles that may come up. And with Dáin so near, and the allies we now have amongst the Men and Elves, there seems little that they would _need_ me to be there to take care of. At least for a while longer."

"Well, what's wrong, then?" asked Bilbo. "What has _come to light_?"

Thorin let out what sounded like a resigned sigh. "I was speaking with Menegilda earlier, while you were out gathering honey." He paused, rubbing his whiskered chin for a moment before going on. "And, apparently, people have been talking."

"What about?" asked Bilbo, almost fearing the answer.

"About _me._ About what I really am."

Bilbo's heart sank. "About you being a _king_?"

"About me being _nobility_ , at any rate," said Thorin. "There are rumors going around that I am royalty."

Bilbo narrowed his eyes and doubled his fists, gritting his teeth when the tensing of his muscles aggravated his arm - though it was not the stings that were now of greatest concern to him, but rather the possibility that Thorin's _holiday_ might very well be soon coming to an end.

How often had royalty ever set foot in the Shire, after all? How often had the folk who lived this quiet place been able to say they had been in the company of someone of noble blood? It would not now be long before people would begin surrounding Thorin whenever he was in public; and worse, they would come knocking whenever he was inside Bag End, disturbing his rest to the point where Bilbo's home would not _be_ restful anymore.

What reason would Thorin have to stay, then? He would need to leave, just to get away from the curious crowds that gathered around; to get away from those who would hang on his heels, and those who would jostle against him just so they could say they had _touched_ a king. He would have to slip away, swiftly and silently in the dead of night - as he had done when he'd left Erebor, just so nobody would follow him as he went.

And who had started the rumors, anyway? Bilbo had said nothing, and Thorin had not spoken to anyone but him and Menegilda since he had been there. And Ori and Óin would surely not have said anything when they'd been out and about in Hobbiton, even if they'd thought they were alone enough to safely speak of it. Had the Ravens that had gone through Buckland started it? Or the Dwarves that had passed on the Ravens' message?

No, it didn't matter where the gossip had _started_. It could have simply been a lucky guess, or an _educated_ guess. Rumors and whispers begin all the time in taverns and inns, and in the bustle of a busy market; but if they do not reach the right ears, they do not spread - and Bilbo felt he knew very well who had whispered the loudest this time.

"I'll bet this is _Lobelia's_ doing," he said through his teeth. "Always, _always_ she turns the rumor mill! Though I should not be surprised that she would spread this around. She would do anything in her power to see to it that I was unhappy."

Thorin stared into the air between them for a moment, then he shook his head. "I asked Menegilda if she thought Lobelia might have been the one doing the rumoring, and what she had to say on the matter, I must agree with: knowing that you were in the company of nobility would make you look _better_ in peoples' eyes; so if Lobelia wished for you to be unhappy, then what satisfaction would she get from saying such a thing?"

"What makes me _unhappy_ is the thought that you will not have your peace and quiet!"

"But Lobelia doesn't _know_ that, does she?" asked Thorin. "And if she wanted people to think less of you, would she not be better served by telling them that I am a criminal or some such thing?"

"I wish people _did_ believe that of you," said Bilbo; then his cheeks began to burn as he realized what he had just said. "I mean... at least you would be more likely to be left alone while you are here."

"But I will not be here forever," said Thorin; then he let his gaze linger on Bilbo's face for a few seconds before turning towards the window. "And where would a shattered reputation leave you after I am gone?"

The question took Bilbo rather off-guard, and he found that he did not quite know how to answer it. "What has my _reputation_ to do with anything?"

For a moment, Thorin said nothing; then he turned back to Bilbo. "I have noticed that many Hobbits do not think well of Dwarves," he said, "and I have been worried for a long time that when they see you with me... that they would think of me as nothing but a _disreputable_ type, and believe that you have taken up with an undesirable crowd."

"As I told you," said Bilbo, his voice shaking slightly, "if they thought that of you, then at least they would leave you alone."

"And when I am gone?" asked Thorin; though he did not wait for an answer. " _You_ may not care anymore for what your reputation has to say about you, but your neighbors and kin _might_ care about it. And if that reputation spoke ill of you, would people still come over for a visit? Would they still chat idly with you when they met you in passing? Would they still invite you over for dinner or tea?" He paused, tilting his head towards the kitchen table. "Or would you stay here, cooking only for yourself, and eating your meals in silence?"

Bilbo turned his face down. "Neighbors might distance themselves somewhat, perhaps, but not my family," he said. "Menegilda and Rory do not care one whit about my reputation; nor do Mirabella or Primula, or most of the other Brandybucks, I'm sure. They will certainly come over for visits, whenever they are able."

"But how often will they be able?" asked Thorin, brushing a lock of hair away from Bilbo's eyes. "Most of the Brandybucks live in Buckland, do they not? And Mirabella and Primula will be returning there soon, as will Rorimac and Menegilda. That will leave few Brandybucks in the vicinity of The Hill, unless I am very much mistaken."

"The Tooks, then," said Bilbo, drawing the dish-towel off his shoulder and tossing it next to the cake on the sill. "But, really, you needn't worry about me, Thorin. I got out visiting with my friends and cousins plenty enough before you came here, and I am sure I will do so again..." He stopped, the words _when you leave_ failing on his lips.

Thorin took him by the hand. "I think, Bilbo, that it might be best if we let the wheels of the _rumor mill_ turn, after all," he said softly. "If we let others believe... if we let them _know_ , as Menegilda knows, that I _am_ royalty, then they will not be so likely to turn you away when I leave here." He let out a long sigh. "It is important to me that you be happy when I am gone, even if it means that we will be..."

"The gossip will die down," said Bilbo, cutting him off. "All the good _and_ the bad that people say about either of us will fade into background murmurs when they find other things to speak about, other things to..." He stopped; then his eyes widened as Thorin's exact words repeated in his mind. "As Menegilda _knows_? Did you tell her that the rumors were true?"

"No," said Thorin, grinning crookedly. "She said that she learned of my name and my nobility from some Dwarves that passed through Buckland last year, so it is really rather surprising that the others who came in from there do not know who I am, as well."

Bilbo tightened his grip on Thorin's hand, this time ignoring the pain in his arm. "Not _so_ surprising, really," he said, glad for some reason to change the subject. "Mirabella could never recall names well, and she passed that on to her own children. Rory told me that she often calls him by all his sisters' and brothers' names before she gets it right, even after all these years."

"Much as I myself could never get Fíli and Kíli's names straight until they were long grown," said Thorin; then his smile eased a bit and he turned to the window. "And still, even _then_ I could not always get them right."

They both fell silent; and while Bilbo was certain that Thorin's thoughts were now on his nephews, his own mind was on the Dwarf's distant expression.

In recent days, he had come to know Thorin's face quite well, and he often let his eyes trace along the line of his profile when they were on the verge of sleep on the sofa at night. And even in the daylight hours, Bilbo had come into the habit of studying Thorin's features, setting them to memory to the point where he could see his face well when he closed his eyes. Without the need to look, he could now picture the tilt of Thorin's chin, the curve of his nose, the furrowing of his scarred brow, the shortened hair at the back of his head.

 _Shortened_ , but growing back fast; and Bilbo figured that it would soon be long enough to braid away from his face. In fact, it seemed to be long enough for that already, though Thorin had not even tried, as far as Bilbo was aware. But maybe he was waiting, for some reason. Until Ori and Óin came back through from Ered Luin, perhaps; or until his mourning time had come to an end and he returned to Erebor. Perhaps he was waiting to do what was considered proper for a Dwarf, until he was actually among them.

Bilbo ran his fingers through the hair at the back of his own head. It had been quite a while since he'd had it trimmed, and he was certain he looked rather silly by now. He wasn't sure, exactly, why he hadn't had it taken care of yet, as it was quite a bit longer than he'd ever remembered it being. It was wavy and unruly, and it was always getting into his eyes these days; and he had considered, a few times, tying it back as his Dwarf friends had done their own hair-braiding it on the sides or knotting it at the back of his head-but that was really rather improper for a Hobbit.

But then, Bilbo thought, it had really been a long time since he had behaved like a _proper_ Hobbit, anyway.

That extended, even, to his lack of _socialization_ ; and he was not at all certain whether he would be happier with a fine reputation that brought guests around, or a _shattered_ one that gave him more time to be alone - because, though Bilbo's house might be filled with neighbors and friends and kin, it would still feel empty without Thorin being there. He could not imagine anyone else sitting in Thorin's chair at the table, or in his place by the fire, or spending the night in his room; and he knew that he would not himself be comfortable on the sofa without Thorin being there beside him.

No, if Thorin was not there, then he would not want _anyone_ else there; at least, not for more than a short visit, a quick meal, or a simple chat on the doorstep while he smoked his morning pipe.

How could he explain that to Thorin, though, without making him feel guilty about leaving? How could he tell him that he would rather be alone, if not with him? He _couldn't_ tell him that. Thorin believed that Bilbo would be happier with guests coming and going; and Bilbo was not going to tell him otherwise, if believing so would make Thorin happier when he left.

Their hold on one another loosened, then released; and Bilbo took a step back and turned his face aside, casting his sight on the plate of scones on the sideboard. "This is what you really want, then?" he asked, trying to sound light though his throat was aching. "For you being _noble_ to be general knowledge around here?"

He walked over and grabbed the plate and returned with it to the window; and Thorin turned his eyes down as Bilbo set the scones next to the cake on the sill.

"I do," said the Dwarf. "But I will make no move to let it be known, unless it is your wish, as well."

"Then I wish it," said Bilbo.

A smile played across Thorin's lips. "You are certain?"

Bilbo nodded, then picked up one of the scones and took a small bite. It was crumbly and dry, and even with the glaze it was not very sweet; but it was buttery and quite tasty all the same, and really not bad at all for being Thorin's first attempt.

"As certain as I am able to be," he said, grabbing another scone and holding it out to Thorin. "And, in any case, we will not need to say or do anything to help the rumors spread. They will do so all on their own."

"As they always _will_ , as long as people are bored and curious," said Thorin, accepting the pastry. He hesitated a moment before taking a small bite; then he wrinkled his nose, apparently unimpressed with his own work. "Perhaps these will be better with tea."

"I think they are fine all on their own," said Bilbo. "But if it's the lack of sweetness bothering you, then remember that Menegilda and the others will likely have them with jam." He moved quickly to the table, then returned to the window with the honey-crock; and after setting it down, he grabbed the dipper, then drizzled a bit of honey first on what was left on his own scone, then on Thorin's. "Try it with this for now."

They each took another bite; but if Thorin found, as Bilbo did, that the scone not only tasted better with the honey on it, but that it was less dry and crumbly, he did not say so.

"You'll have to help out with the baking more often," said Bilbo, finishing off his pastry, then licking the honey off his fingers. "Over the next few days, even. It's a tradition in the Shire to give gifts of food when a child is born, so that the parents might spend more time with the baby and less in the kitchen. I think that by the time we have finished giving Menegilda and Rory desserts, I'll have made a proper baker out of you."

Thorin quickly finished what was left of his scone, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I am not, actually, such a poor cook in my own right," he said with a small laugh. "Though pastries and cakes and sweets are not amongst those things that I have much experience with. I much prefer to make something savory and meaty, well-tenderized and pleasantly fatty. Beef or pork or mutton, or what have you. I have made many dishes that might taste as good in an ordered and tidy kitchen as they do while camping on the side of the road."

As he had been speaking, Bilbo's eyes had been steadily widening; and when he finished, the Hobbit hummed enthusiastically. "Well, then I'd be happy to allow you the run of the kitchen whenever you like," he said. "I could use the break once in a while."

"Really?" said Thorin doubtfully. "In truth, I would have offered long ago, but I thought you would resent the intrusion."

"Contrary to what you might think, I do appreciate the help from time to time," said Bilbo. "Though it really is no greater chore cooking for two or three than it is cooking for one, I do sometimes feel stressed to keep the menu creative. Once in a while I even begin to long for something different, made by hands other than my own." He winked playfully. "Something a little more adventurous."

"I suppose, if you consider food made by Dwarf hands to be adventurous, I should either be flattered or insulted," joked Thorin.

"Flattered, certainly! And you may make dinner tonight, if you like."

"After a trip to the market, of course. If I am to do the cooking, then a visit to the butcher is in order."

The mention of going to the market with Thorin cheered Bilbo greatly, and he stood up straighter. "Of course!" he said. "And the sooner the better, so that all the good meat will not have been snatched up before we get there!"

"I have always had great luck with my sister's recipe for honeyed roast chicken," said Thorin as Bilbo moved quickly past him and grabbed the shopping basket off the potato bin. "And it seems that we have just enough honey left for that, if you would like for me to make it this evening."

"I certainly would!" said Bilbo. "I've my own recipe for that, and I should like to see how yours compares."

He hung the basket over the crook of his right arm and led the way to the front door; and as they stepped together out of the house, Thorin shut the door behind them. Soon they began down the path towards the main road, continuing on for a couple minutes in pleasant silence; then Thorin glanced back over his shoulder towards The Hill before turning to Bilbo.

"What is it about Lobelia that bothers you so?" he asked without preamble. "You speak a lot about your spoons, but I imagine there was strife between you before that, even."

"Oh, there was," said Bilbo; and though the suddenness of the question took him by surprise, he had been expecting Thorin to ask some such thing for a long while. "Lobelia and Otho... well, honestly, I was not always on bad terms with them. When they first moved to Hobbiton, we got along quite well, as a matter of fact, and I even took it upon myself to show them around and introduce them to the neighbors."

"What happened between you, then? If you do not mind me asking."

Bilbo shrugged. "I think most of the trouble started because I refused to sell Bag End to them," he said; and though he was trying to make his words sound casual, he was positive that they had come out practiced, instead. "Lobelia offered to buy it from me once, and I told her that I'd never sell it... that it would have gone against my parents' wishes. I guess she didn't like that very much." He started tapping his fingers against his leg; then he stopped doing so when his arm began to burn again. "It was just a simple thing, really."

Thorin narrowed his eyes. "As _simple_ as that, and yet even years later the bitterness remains?"

"Dwarves seem to be no quicker to resolve their differences," said Bilbo; then he cringed at his choice of words.

But Thorin simply raised an eyebrow at him. "You are not a _Dwarf_ ," he said. "And, if nothing else, I have learned how your kind are quite forgiving of others. Is there _no_ reason you would speak with her again?"

To this, Bilbo had no answer; and so he pressed his lips together until Thorin continued.

"Might it help if I spoke to her on your behalf?"

Bilbo chuckled; then he looked up suddenly. "You're not joking?"

Thorin shook his head, and Bilbo turned his face forward again and went on.

"Not that it would do any good," he said hesitantly, "but if the opportunity ever comes up for you to speak with her, then you have my blessing to do so. But, at any rate, I doubt it _will_ ever come up. As far as I am aware, you don't even know what she looks like."

Thorin leaned close to Bilbo. "I know where she _lives_ ," he said in an affected whisper.

"And you would not get one foot in the door before she was whistling for the Bounders!"

"And suppose I did manage to speak with her, by some chance," said Thorin, straightening up again. "Suppose I convinced her to speak with _you_..?"

"Then I would certainly do so," said Bilbo; though he did not believe for a moment that any such thing would ever happen. "If there was any guarantee of her being civil."

They quieted themselves as a tween Hobbit on the road not far ahead stopped and stared at them; then the boy turned his attention towards their feet and gasped before spinning about and sprinting back in the direction from which he had come. Bilbo grinned, then looked down to see what had shocked him so; then he laughed out loud.

"You've forgotten your boots!"

Thorin glanced down at his feet. "I guess I've gotten used to not wearing them," he said with a smile. "But I don't suppose we'll be out for so long that it will bother me to go about barefoot for a while."

"Are you sure? We can go back and get them, you know. I wouldn't want you hurting yourself."

"I'll be fine, really. Anyway, I am sure I will not be mistaken for a Hobbit."

"That's unlikely, yes," said Bilbo with another laugh. "Though if you truly want for the rumors of you being a _king_ to spread, then this might not be the way to go about it. What king would go out and about without his boots, after all? Or, perhaps, without a crown and robe, and a sword on his hip? I'm sure that is what most Hobbits think when they consider royalty. I certainly did, before I met so many."

"A very good point. While I'm hiding away in your home, people might think what they think; but when they see me like..." Thorin motioned towards his own simple tunic and trousers. "Well, like _this_. I am far too _casual_ , perhaps. Too relaxed to be of noble blood."

"Well, then, maybe next time you should dress up more!" said Bilbo, only half-joking. "I know you have a fine cloak in one of your bags, and that might be a start, anyway." He slowed his pace somewhat. "There _will_ be a _next time_ that you will be going with me to the market, won't there?"

Thorin smiled down at him. "I will go with you next time, and the time after that, and the time after _that_ ," he said. "And every other time you wish for me to go with you."

They beamed at one another for a moment, then Thorin turned forward, and Bilbo shifted the shopping-basket from his right arm to the left; but when the rough handle scraped over his stings, he gritted his teeth and grabbed it instead with his left hand. From the edge of his vision, he saw Thorin glance down - though neither of them said anything, and they instead returned their attention to the bustling market not so far ahead.

A few steps further on, Thorin lifted and turned his head, casting his sight towards the east; then Bilbo looked up, as well, letting his eyes follow the silver ribbon of the Water as it wound its way through the hills and farmlands that lay between Hobbiton and the Brandywine River.

"I think, perhaps," said Thorin abruptly, "that I should go to Buckland to find out what the message was that the Ravens had for me."

"I thought you weren't worried about that."

"I am not _worried_ about it, really. I know that my kin would not be calling for me to come to Erebor before I am ready, but it would still be best if I found out what the message was. At the least, I can send word back that all is well."

The corner of Bilbo's mouth curled up slightly. "I don't suppose you would care for company along the road to Buckland?"

"I would like nothing better," Thorin told him. "One more _adventure_ to share?"

"It would not take long to ride there, of course," said Bilbo, growing somewhat excited at the thought of taking a trip with Thorin, however short. "A couple of days, at most. But we could go on foot instead, call it a _walking holiday_ , stop at a few inns along the way?"

"If we were to do that, we might _never_ make it to Buckland."

As they reached the end of the bridge over the Water, a couple of elderly Hobbits shuffled by, arm-in-arm. They lowered their heads in greeting at Thorin and Bilbo, who returned the gesture; and when the old folks had passed them fully by, Bilbo stepped over to the bridge wall and sat down.

"Would it be so bad, really, if we made a few detours on the way?" he asked as Thorin sat down beside him. "Would you not like to go up to Budgeford, meet Herugar and ask him how his pigs are doing? Or stop in to the Golden Perch for an ale? Or sleep under the trees on the Bridgefields?"

"I think that I would like that very much," said Thorin, turning his gaze towards Bilbo's pained arm. "But I would not want to leave for a few more days, at least, so to give your stings a chance to heal." His eyes flicked in the direction of a group of small Hobbit children who were giggling into their palms and pointing at his hairless feet. "And I would also very much like to be sure all is well with Menegilda and her baby."

Bilbo snapped his fingers and leaned closer to him. "Ah! I knew it! You _are_ worried about her!"

"I _am_ ," Thorin admitted with a nod. "But I suppose I might begin to worry about _our_ wellbeing, if we do not soon get the cake and scones delivered. It's best, I think, if we get the shopping done quickly and get back home. I may have only met Mirabella for a few minutes, but that was enough to learn that she is not someone to keep waiting."

"Especially for dessert," said Bilbo, standing and starting across the bridge once more. "You _will_ be going with me to deliver them, won't you?"

"Of course I will," said Thorin, falling into step beside him. "It really has been a long time since I have seen a newborn, and I am really rather curious about how... well, how _small_ one of your kind must be."

" _Very_ small, from your point of view, I am sure. Maybe even small enough to be cradled comfortably in your palm!"

Soon, they were in the heart of the market, and all about them people were rushing around, trying to get their shopping done before sunset came on and the booths shut down. Amidst the bustle, several Hobbits stopped and stared at them curiously before whispering to one another and hurrying off in the direction of the inn. A moment later, a young lass backed up, accidentally bumping into Thorin. She turned and looked up at him, then her mouth fell open and she curtsied awkwardly at him. Thorin lowered his head in a nod and smiled at her; then her face reddened and she ran off, giggling.

Bilbo suppressed a grin. Despite his worries, he had to admit that it _was_ nice that Thorin was finding more comfort being out amongst the residents of Hobbiton; and he felt now that it might not be such a bad thing, after all, if more people _did_ know of Thorin's nobility.

As his thoughts were being drawn, however, he did not notice when two boys came running by in the midst of a game of tag. The first one bumped against Bilbo's left arm, and he gritted his teeth and jumped, then dropped the basket onto the ground. Before he could bend over to recover it, though, Thorin had already stooped and snatched it up; and Bilbo looked at him almost sheepishly as he stood.

"Would you allow me one request?" asked Thorin, handing it back to him.

Bilbo nodded. "Of course."

"The next time we have need of honey, allow _me_ to gather it."


	6. Gifts Of Gold And Honey

_Lobelia is none too happy about having to get out of bed to answer the door. It is much too early in the morning for guests, after all - and certainly the time is never right for there to be a Dwarf on the step._

* * *

Lobelia Sackville-Baggins pulled her dressing gown shut and tied the belt tight, grumbling under her breath as she shuffled down the hallway. Whoever was at the door was going to get an earful from her for coming so early - and _uninvited_ , at that. It was improper and rude, and she wasn't going to have any of it. Who on Earth would do such a thing?

And _she_ should not be the one having to answer the door at this time of morning, anyway! But Otho had spent too long a night out drinking to notice when the bell had been rung, and when she had given him a little nudge to wake him, he'd just tumbled out of bed and landed on the floor with a _thud_ ; then he'd rolled over next to the wall, curled himself up, and went on snoring. So Lobelia had no choice but to crawl out from under her warm quilt so to answer the bell, herself; and she was in such a tizzy over it that she hadn't even taken a moment to slip off her sleeping-bonnet.

She swung the door open and sneered forward, preparing to tell whoever was out there to be off; but she faltered back when she saw before her a broad chest clad in a dirty linen tunic. Shutting her mouth tight, she lifted her eyes, then she let out a little noise of shock when she saw a Dwarf's grim, whiskered face staring down at her.

"Thorin Oakenshield," he introduced himself almost formally; then he gave her a stiff bow, as if that would excuse him for disturbing her at such an hour. "Of Erebor, late of Ered Luin."

Gathering her wits, Lobelia squinted at the dark-haired stranger; then she tightened her jaw when she recognized him as being one of Bilbo's strange Dwarf _companions_. More than that, he was likely one of the closer ones, as she was positive she had seen the two of them out at the market together just yesterday.

"Are you lost?" she asked flatly.

The Dwarf grunted. "No, I am not _lost_ ," he told her. "I am a friend of..."

"Yes, I _know_ ," she interrupted him. "And, apparently, Bilbo has yet to teach you how people are expected to behave in these parts. Now tell me quickly what it is you want here, so that I might get back to my business in peace."

The muscles in his neck tensed. "May I come in? There is a matter that I would like to discuss with you."

Lobelia's eyes widened as she looked the Dwarf over again. The top few buttons of his filthy shirt were rather uncouthly undone, the cuffs were rolled up above his wrists, and the hem was half-untucked. In his hand he held a soggy satchel, and his trousers and boots were caked with mud and stuck here and there with dead leaves; and even his _hair_ was a terrible mess, as in places she could see twigs and pine-needles peeking out past the silver-streaked black strands.

She thought for a moment of calling for the Bounders, so to escort him away; but what good would _they_ be, when dealing with someone of his ilk? All they really seemed to be good for was dragging drunkards home from the inns and taking wandering sheep back to their paddocks - they'd surely be little help against an oversized, burly and indecent type such as the one on her doorstep.

No, she knew that if she wanted to be rid of him, she would have to take it upon herself; and so she crossed her arms and tilted her chin up resolutely.

"Listen here, Mister _Oakenshield_ ," she said. "You are quite mistaken if you think I am going to let you into my home _at all_ , much less at _this_ time of the morning, and wearing..." She glanced down at his feet. "...Wearing muddy _boots_!"

She suppressed a shudder as she thought about the tracks he would leave on her fine rugs, then she turned her face up again and looked him in the eye. He rotated his neck and knitted his brows, and she thought that he seemed altogether pained and uncomfortable - though it was really rather hard to tell for certain, past all of the hair on his face. What _were_ those beards all about, anyway? Did Dwarves _enjoy_ looking like wild animals?

"If I were to remove my boots," he said, "would you _then_ allow me inside?"

"Haven't you anyone else you could bother at this hour?" she asked, growing swiftly tired of this _Thorin_ fellow's presence. "The Gamgees, perhaps? As I understand it, Bilbo is rather _fond_ of them."

"I have not met them."

"The Brandybucks, then," she said, remembering that Moro Burrows had seen them going into Bag End just a few days ago - and that Menegilda had stayed there when Rorimac left a short while later. "If I am not very much mistaken, you do know _them_. Go to _their_ home, if you need..."

"Their home is too far distant," Thorin cut her off. "And, also, they and their child are part of the reason why I am here."

Lobelia started. Despite her dislike of the whole of that family, she had no wish for any harm to come to their baby; and, after all, she had heard that Menegilda had just delivered him last evening, and there was so very much that could go wrong at such a young age.

"Has something happened to their little one?" she asked, placing a hand to her chest. "He is not sick, is he?"

"What?" Thorin said; then he shook his head. "No, he is fine, as far as I am aware."

"Well, then what do you _want_?" she asked, regaining her resolve; though it still took her a few seconds before she thought to lower her hand from her chest.

"Your help."

It unnerved Lobelia how _pleading_ he had sounded in giving that simple answer. But still, she was not in any mood to be swayed by his tone - even if she was a _little_ curious about what a Dwarf could possibly want from _her_.

"Help with _what_?"

He looked to the side. "I suppose I _could_ discuss that with you, here and now," he said. "Though I wonder, Ma'am, what your neighbors might think, if they were to see me standing for so long on your doorstep."

Lobelia drew in a sharp breath through her nose; then she leaned forward and peered past the Dwarf. She saw no one out and about yet, but she knew it would not be long before people began making their way up and down the road. Such nosy neighbors she had! They would surely talk!

"Oh, very well!" she said, stepping back from the door. "You may come in. But remove your boots first, and you will only be going as far as the entry hall. I've no desire to have you trailing mud and... _whatever_ else is all over you through my home."

Thorin nodded, then bent over-painfully, it seemed-and unbuckled his boots. He slipped them off and set them on the stoop, and Lobelia wrinkled her nose at his still-dirty, disconcertingly smooth feet as he stepped over the threshold. How anyone could go about in _shoes_ she never understood, as they apparently took all the hair off and made the soles soft.

Once he was inside, Lobelia again peeked out to check if any of her neighbors had seen the Dwarf enter; and when she still saw nobody about, she slammed the door and spun around towards him.

"Now, what exactly is it that you wanted?" she asked gruffly.

Thorin looked down at his left hand and flexed his fingers a few times. "Bilbo told me that it is... _traditional_ in the Shire to give gifts of food when a child is born."

"That is true," said Lobelia. And it _was_ true, though she herself had never felt inclined to do such a thing. "But what has that to do with _me_?"

The Dwarf let out a long breath. "He wished to make something for Rorimac and Menegilda today," he said. "But I used up the last of the honey last night, and so I thought to leave early this morning and return with more before he awoke."

"So, then... what you mean to tell me, in your long-winded and roundabout way, is that you are here because you have need of _honey_?"

Thorin lowered his head in what might have been a nod, but he said nothing.

"Well, I'm afraid I don't have any to spare," said Lobelia, very nearly seething by now. "And if you came by just so you could beg some off of me..."

"I would beg nothing of you," said Thorin, drawing himself up taller. He lifted his wet pack and opened it to show her the rather large ceramic jar he had stored inside. "I have plenty enough honey now - or I _will_ , once I've extracted it. The _matter_ I have come to you for is a different one, though not altogether unrelated."

He closed his bag, then pulled up his left sleeve. There were several large, puffy red marks on his skin, evident even under the grime, and Lobelia threw her hand over her mouth when she saw them. Then she composed herself and lowered her hand, though her eyes were still wide as they met Thorin's own.

"You were stung?" she asked, as if the answer was not already as clear as the welts on his arm. "Well, why on Earth would you come to _me_ for help? Why not go back to _Bilbo_ and let him do for you what you need?"

Thorin lowered his sleeve, then appeared to hesitate a bit before speaking up. "He told me once that you had shown him a kindness in treating his own stings," he said at last; though it seemed to Lobelia that it was not really an _answer_. "He said that you were quite skilled at it."

"Hmm... you may call it a _kindness_ , if you wish," she said - pleased, at least, to hear that Bilbo remembered how she had helped him; though that day several years ago _had_ ended up being an unpleasant one. "But I would quicker call it _earning a repayment_ , which he never bothered to make good on."

The Dwarf's eyes darted back and forth for a moment, then he reached into his trouser pocket. "Allow me, then, to make that repayment on his behalf," he said, drawing out a large, oddly-shaped gold coin. "And, also, an advance on any aid you might give me now."

He held the money out to Lobelia; and after a few seconds of trying to process what she was seeing, she extended her hand. Thorin pressed the coin into her palm, and her mouth fell open in surprise at how heavy it was; then she lifted it up to the early-morning sunlight that was streaming in through the window.

"What is this to me?" she asked, unable to take her eyes off the gleam. "This is not Shire money."

"Nor is it anything that you would find in either Breeland or the Blue Mountains."

"Well, where _is_ it from, then?" She narrowed her eyes, trying to study the strange writing on the center of the coin, though her efforts were thwarted by the brilliance of the gold, itself. "And what is its worth?"

"Its intrinsic value alone is greater than you can imagine," the Dwarf told her, "and its provenance is greater still. It is fine and pure Ereborian gold, minted centuries ago, and only recently recovered from the bed of one of the most powerful dragons of our age. Its like is now only to be found in the royal treasuries deep within the Lonely Mountain."

Lobelia realized at once that she was holding her breath, and she let it out so quickly that she nearly blew the coin out of her hand. " _Royal_ treasuries?" she asked. "And how would _you_ get such a thing? Scavenged, I suppose?"

"I need not scavenge for my own," said Thorin proudly.

 _His own?_ Lobelia thought, wrapping her hand tightly around the coin.

Oh, she had heard rumors, of course, that those Dwarves that spent time at Bag End were not the mining or thieving or begging types; and Bell Woodvine had even whispered to her once that they were _nobility_. But she had never believed those stories in the least. Really, what nonsense!

"How ridiculous!" she said, accidentally out loud.

Still, she swallowed almost nervously and again opened her palm to look at the coin. Whether or not he was telling the truth about where it had come from, it _did_ appear to be made of fine gold; and as he had thought to give her such a thing in payment for so small a task, she was not going to say _'_ _no'_ simply because he might get a little mud on her floor.

"This way with you, then," she said, sliding the coin into the pocket of her dressing gown. She turned on her heel and led the way down the hall and to her kitchen; and once there, she motioned for him to sit down at the table. "Don't touch anything."

Thorin did as she told him, and Lobelia winced when her chair legs creaked under his weight; then she bit down softly on her tongue and made her way to the counter. There, she wet a rag in the water-bucket next to the basin; and after grabbing a knife from her cutlery drawer and a potato from the bin, she stepped back to the table and sat down beside the Dwarf.

"It would have been best to keep the mud off of the stings," she said, pulling up his sleeve and wiping the rag over his grimy arm. She paused for a moment when she saw a number of scars marring his skin, then she huffed disapprovingly and went on cleaning. "But at least you knew enough to remove the stingers."

"They removed themselves," said Thorin. "I was stung through my tunic, and when I moved, the fabric pulled them out of my skin." He growled low, then set his dirty pack down on the table. "If you would allow me to take off my shirt..."

She jerked back as if he had physically struck her. "I beg your pardon!"

"I mean you no disrespect," he said. "But there are stings on my back, as well, and _that_ is the main reason I came here rather than tending to them myself." He raised an eyebrow at her. "But if you would rather I leave, then you may certainly give me back my gold, and I will be on my way."

Lobelia dropped her hand to her pocket. That would be just like a Dwarf to take back what he had given. Not that she had ever actually _met_ any other Dwarves, but she'd heard tales of their greed. And, well, now that she had seen and held the gold, she did not want to give it up. So, then, she knew she would have to _earn_ it - though she was sure she already _had_ earned it, as this Thorin person had said, in treating Bilbo's stings so long ago.

"Fine, then," she told him, throwing the now-dirty rag onto the table. "You may remove your shirt, but do _not_ place it anywhere but on your own lap."

She picked up the knife and began cutting the potato into slices, all the while listening to the creaking of her fine chair as Thorin grunted and shifted out of his tunic. Then he let out a long, ragged breath; and when she turned to him once more, her jaw went slack.

Heavens! How awful Dwarves looked out of their clothing! There were some kind of markings-almost like a child's scribbles-across his too-hairy chest, and they continued up and over his left shoulder and down his arm. Had he really allowed someone to _draw_ on his skin? How odd! What a strange people these Dwarves were.

Lobelia clicked her tongue, then set the knife down and stood, grabbing the rag off the table as she made her way around behind Thorin. His back was no cleaner than his chest or arm, though the welts were easy enough to make out under the dirt; and when she reached up and moved his hair to the side, yet more stings came into sight on his neck. Altogether, there must have been twenty-five of the small wounds on his back, neck, and arm - and the thought of how much it must have hurt actually gave her pause.

"Not that I care, really," she said, trying to sound casual, "but _how_ did you get stung so badly? Do you know nothing about how to soothe bees? Did you not bring a smoker?"

"I've never needed one before," said Thorin. "But then, I have never seen bees quite so aggressive as you have here."

"They aren't usually," said Lobelia. "But perhaps Shire bees just don't like your kind."

She looked to the rag in her grip. It was obvious that it was already too dirty to remove all of the grime from his shoulders and back, and although she didn't care at all for the Dwarf, if she was going to do this, she was going to do it _properly_. So she swiftly made her way to the water-bucket and wet another rag, then returned to Thorin and began wiping the mud off of his shoulders, grimacing when the nasty water flowed down his back and onto her chair.

As the Dwarf's skin came clearer, though, not only did she see more bee-stings on his shoulder, but also more ink-marks - and she was staggered to find that the ink was not actually _on_ his skin, but rather _under_ it.

 _Disgusting,_ she thought, pulling the rag quickly away.

Who would have something like that done to them? And _how_ was it done? She examined the marks closer, trying to figure out just what a person would need to do to get ink beneath the skin in such a way; then she shook her head and gave up the thought, deciding that the Dwarf's strange predilections were none of her concern.

She went on cleaning away the mud then; but all across his back, she soon began to see scars. A great many scars. Some deep and broad, some shallow and short, some long and jagged; some white with age, others red with youth; some that bore the marks from being stitched closed, and others that had obviously been left to heal on their own.

The rag fell from Lobelia's hand and landed on her foot. She jumped and kicked it away, then she stepped to the side and looked again to the Dwarf's marred skin. What kind of rough life must he have lived? How could a person get involved in any wretched business that would lead to so many wounds?

Lobelia became suddenly aware that she had her now-dirty hand pressed to her lips, and she wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her dressing gown as she moved around to the table. She wanted even more now to get this Dwarf out of her house; and so when she saw that there were not nearly enough potato slices to cover all the stings, she hastily cut the ones she already had in half.

She stepped around to Thorin's back, and one-by-one, she placed the slices on the stings there; then she moved to his side and did the same to his arm. The Dwarf let out what she thought was a sound of confusion, and she looked up to see that his brows were drawn deeply together.

"It is meant to draw out the poison," she said, guessing his unasked question.

She finished applying the slices, then spun away from him and made her way to the counter. There, she brought out her mortar and pestle, then she tore some leaves off of the potted basil and parsley she kept on the window sill. It would be better, she knew, if she added some mallow - but that was out in the garden, and she was not inclined to leave the Dwarf alone in her kitchen while she fetched it.

"Why would you not just go and get some honey from the market?" she asked, throwing the leaves into the mortar and beginning to mash them together with the pestle. "Surely, Bilbo did not plan on starting his baking so early."

"I _might_ have done so," he said. "But he doesn't..."

Thorin stopped, and from the corner of her eye, Lobelia saw him tapping his fingers thoughtfully on the tabletop. She stepped up to him, then she set the mortar on the table and crossed her arms. Even sitting down, he was tall enough for her to look him straight in the eye while she was standing; and though it was rather disconcerting, she was not going to shy away from his gaze.

"I suppose Bilbo _still_ won't use any but wild honey," she said, wrinkling her nose. "He's always been so picky about such things. Of course, what I've heard is that it isn't really _wild_ , anyway. I heard his father hollowed out trees for the hives, somewhere in the Overhill Woods." She tilted her head. "Is that true?"

The Dwarf's mouth twisted into what might have been a smirk. "His father did no such thing."

Lobelia hummed softly, not believing him at all. "Well, with all the mud and leaves and such on you, my guess is that the hives are at least _somewhere_ in the woods near to the Bog. Or did you fall into a woodland-stream while you were running away?"

His slight smile fell, but he made no other movements; and Lobelia grinned, feeling as if she had scored a point on the Dwarf.

"Let me see the honey," she said, holding her hand out.

Thorin's eyes widened a bit, then flitted in the direction of his satchel. He reached into it and drew out the crock, and Lobelia snatched it from him; then she pried the cork off the top and dipped her finger into the honey as she broke up the comb. Holding her finger up to the light, she could see then that the honey was a hearty, dark amber; and the way it caught the sunlight gave it the aspect of a liquid jewel.

She was unable to stop herself from tasting it, and a soft smile rose to her lips at the rich sweetness; then she cleared her throat and straightened her expression. "It _is_ fine," she said, pouring a bit of the thick liquid and wax into the mortar. "But hardly worth getting stung for."

"It is worth it if..." Thorin began, but his voice trailed off.

Lobelia gave him a sidelong glance as she put the cork back on the jar; then she began to combine the honey and wax in with the herbs. The scent that rose up was quite lovely, and she again let herself smile - but only for a moment.

"Why would you even bother worrying about pleasing him?" she asked, knowing full well that he had intended on saying _'it is worth it if it makes Bilbo happy'_. "And what business have you with him, anyway? He is hardly..."

"Bilbo is a friend to me in ways you would likely not understand," said Thorin, cutting her off. "But that you would speak so poorly of him tells me, at least, that you do not know him very well, though you are kin."

"Kin by _marriage_ , only," said Lobelia, setting the pestle down on the table. She gripped the mortar tightly and walked around the Dwarf, and after giving his scars and skin-markings one more glance, she removed a potato slice from one of the stings. "And what are you even doing in the Shire, anyway?" she asked as she daubed a bit of the honey-herb mixture on the exposed welt. "This is nowhere you belong, except perhaps near the quarries in the Northfarthing. I hear tell some of your folk settled up that way."

"I was passing through on business all my own," said Thorin, his voice low, "and Bilbo was kind enough to allow me to stay with him while I was about it."

"He was _kind enough_?" she asked; then she let out out a brief, humorless laugh. "Well, and what about the others that came with you? I am positive I saw two other Dwarves slipping in and out of Bag End for a couple weeks last month. Was he not _kind enough_ to allow _them_ to stay, as well?"

"They went on to Ered Luin, so to visit family there," said Thorin. "But they will be coming through the Shire again soon, and I will be joining them on their return to Erebor."

"Well, that will certainly calm things down a bit around here."

"I was not aware that my presence was _disruptive_ ," said Thorin. "Though I _have_ heard that rumors about me and my kin have been spread. Have _you_ heard any of them, by chance?"

The question took her rather by surprise; and though he could not see her, still she shrugged absently. "None that I would be inclined to believe."

"Because they do not speak ill of us?" he asked with a small chuckle. "Because they say that we are closer to nobility than to beggars or scoundrels?"

Lobelia pressed her lips tightly together and dipped her finger again into the green mash in the mortar. "But why on Earth would you choose to spend time with Bilbo, rather than with your own people?" she asked, shifting the subject back as she tended to another sting. "Why do you even _like_ him so much? What has he ever done for you, after all?"

"Why do you _hate_ him so much?" returned Thorin. "What has he ever done _to_ you?"

Lobelia's fingers froze on his skin.

Really, why bother asking such a thing? And how did he expect her to answer, anyway? She thought for a moment of telling him how she simply did not like Bilbo's attitude, or how he was always so cold when they spoke, or the way he always kept the residents of the Westfarthing buzzing about his luck and riches; but to say any of those things might make her sound bitter, which she certainly was _not_.

But still she thought and thought, feeling obligated to give _some_ answer, if for no other reason than to silence the Dwarf's ramblings; and finally she blurted out the clearest thing that came to mind.

"He took my spoons," she said; then she cringed.

Thorin glanced over his shoulder at her. "Your _spoons_?" he asked; then he turned forward again. "The spoons that you bought when you thought he was dead? The spoons that he later paid you back double for, though they were his by rights? _Those_ spoons?"

"Well... _yes_ ," she said, seething a bit that Bilbo had told him so much - though it was, all of it, true. "He was gone for a _year_ , dragged off by your... your _kind_." She continued to remove the potato slices and applied more of the ointment to his stings, though she was doing so a bit rougher now. "He never told anyone where he was going, never told anyone when he'd come back. All of the _Shire_ thought he was dead. I bought those spoons fair and legal."

" _Legal_ , perhaps," said Thorin. "Though that you did not return them when you learned that he was still alive does not make the purchase _fair_."

"Well, _still alive_ is a matter of contention," said Lobelia, recalling something that the miller's son had said to her. "Rumor has it that the Hobbit up in Bag End is an _imposter_ , and that the _real_ Bilbo Baggins went and got himself killed in some far away place."

But though she said it, she was not prepared to tell the Dwarf that she had ever entirely _believed_ it. There was, after all, no way any _other_ Hobbit could have so much the same attitude as the _Bilbo_ she had always known. True, he was a bit _bolder_ these days, but what else would come from such a close association with Dwarves, after all?

Under her touch, Thorin's shoulders tensed; and when she looked over, she saw his hand curled into a tight fist on the tabletop.

"If you had even the slightest idea of all he has been through..." he said, "if you knew of all he has done for... for _others_ , then you would not be so quick to either vilify him or label him an impostor."

"And I suppose _you_ know him better?" asked Lobelia. "Though I have known him for over half of my life, and you have known him for only a few years, at most?" She drew three more potato slices off of Thorin's back and threw them onto the table. "And what, _exactly_ , has he done for _anyone_. As I recall, he has ridden on his family's name and money since he was a child, and has never lifted a finger for anyone but himself."

"He has done much for many," said Thorin, balling his fist so tightly that his knuckles whitened. "He befriended the lords and kings of Elves, Men, and Dwarves, and he tried to avert a war between them. Before that, even, he aided in the slaying of a dragon and helped to recover treasure. That gold in your pocket would never have been brought to light, if not for him." Thorin shook his head, then eased his fist as he looked down. "He saved many lives, at the risk of his own."

A silence fell between them as Lobelia continued to work on his shoulders and back; and all the while, she thought over his words. He was likely lying. He _must_ be lying. Bilbo did not have it in him to do any of those things, even if he did have that maddeningly _adventurous_ Took blood in him from his mother's side.

She stepped around and sat down in front of Thorin, then quietly set about removing the potato slices from the welts on his arm. Looking up, she saw on his face a distant expression; but when he noticed her gaze, he turned away.

"You question what kind of person Bilbo is," he said. "You hate him for reasons that you yourself cannot articulate, you turn him aside after believing him dead because of _spoons._ You do not _know_ him. He is a truer friend than you could imagine, and if I were the Dwarf I once was, I would say more than you _deserve_."

"And how would you know what I _deserve_?" she snapped. "How do you know that I would not be friendly to him, if he were willing, at least, to do the same for me? But there will be none of _that_ , _Mister Oakenshield_. He has no love for me, after all, nor I for _him_."

"He had no love for me, either," said Thorin quickly, "when first he saved my life." He seemed then to suddenly realize what he had said, and he clamped his mouth shut tight.

Lobelia furrowed her brow; and despite her rising ire, curiosity compelled her to speak up. "What happened, that you needed a _Hobbit_ to save you?"

The Dwarf breathed out hard. "He risked his life for the sake of mine," he said, apparently trying to avoid answering the question. "I was no _friend_ to him then, and seldom at that time had I spoken any kind words to him at all. Yet he was still there for me when I needed him to be. _That_ is the kind of person he is, Ms. Lobelia, and I am sorry for you that you have held him so distant that you have never learned better than you already believe."

"That _I_ have held _him_ distant?" asked Lobelia. "Is that what he told you? Well, did he ever even bother to also tell you that it was _he_ that first broke away from our friendship? That he came to me for help in treating his stings, and that after he left that day he never again looked at me with a bit of kindness, nor kept any trace of bitterness out of his voice when we spoke?"

The Dwarf tilted his head down. "Was that the day that you offered to buy his home from him, by chance?"

"No, it was not," she said; angry, though unsurprised that Bilbo had been telling him so very much about what had happened between them. "That was weeks before he came to me for help, and I hadn't mentioned it since. I thought, in fact, that he had forgotten about it by then."

Thorin stared hard at her, his lips parting slightly in what may have been puzzlement; but he did not speak up, and she set the mortar down on the table.

"I'm done with you," she said. "Do not wash the ointment off for an hour, at least."

The Dwarf nodded and stood, then carefully slipped his dirty tunic back on. "Thank you," he said, lowering his head in what might have been a small bow. "If you will allow, I will show myself out." He picked his satchel up off the table and turned his back to her, then began making his way towards the kitchen door. "If you would prefer, I will not tell Bilbo that you gave me your aid. Or that we spoke at all."

"That might be for the best," said Lobelia.

She watched him as he stepped towards the hallway, then she looked to the honey jar on the table. She grabbed it and began to stand, intent on returning it to the Dwarf; but she found the stickiness on her own fingers disconcerting, and she loosened her hold a bit. But the jar was already too large for her small hand, and it fell from her grip and shattered on the tile floor.

Her mouth gaped in disbelief, and she looked up to see that Thorin had stopped in the doorway. He was staring down at the mess by her feet, and his eyes were narrowed and his shoulders were slumped. She was certain that he thought she had broken the jar on purpose - but he did not look _angry_ , as she was sure _she_ would have been in his place; rather, he looked almost _sad_.

"I'm... I..." she stammered, wringing her hands in embarrassment. "I didn't intend..."

He let out a long breath as he walked back to the table. "I will buy some honey at the Bywater market when it opens."

"It won't be the _same_."

"Be that as it may, it will have to do."

Thorin kneeled and began to gather the shards in his palm, and Lobelia lowered herself to her own knees and grabbed the already-dirty rag off the floor. She then began to wipe up the honey that was spreading across the tiles, but she stopped when she saw that the Dwarf had not yet finished picking up all of the broken ceramic.

"All those stings for nothing, then?" she tried to joke, though she was sure it had come out flat.

"It seems that a lot of wounds are for nothing," said Thorin, his voice so low that she could barely hear him.

He slid the last few sticky shards of pottery into his satchel, then turned away and closed his eyes. A heavy silence followed, and in it Lobelia began to feel anxious about what the Dwarf must now be thinking about her. She shifted uncomfortably on her knees, then looked down, swallowing hard when she saw that his hands were shaking slightly.

"Are you alright?" she asked, despite herself.

He jumped, as if she had roused him from sleep, then he shook his head. "You asked why I came to Hobbiton instead of staying with my own folk," he said after a moment. "The truth of the matter is that I have suffered a loss, and Bilbo has been the greatest help to me in getting through it." He looked to her once more. "Do you have any children, Ms. Lobelia?"

The question was odd and intrusive, but still she answered. "Not yet," she said; then her heart sank and she pressed the tips of her sticky and aromatic fingers to her lips. "You lost a _child_?"

" _Two_ ," he told her softly. "And they were not mine by birth, but raised as my own. _Loved_ as my own. They meant more to me than any treasure, any _kingdom_..." His eyes welled up, and he gave her a weak smile. "Tell me, is it a blessing or a shame that I am now able to say those words to someone nearly a stranger, when the people I _should_ have said them to can no longer hear me?"

A small choking noise made its way out of Lobelia's throat; but still she said nothing, and Thorin rose to his feet and reached down to her. His hand was grimy and sticky and appeared terribly rough, but she hesitated for only a moment before accepting his help up. He then let her go and slipped the satchel strap over his shoulder as he turned away, leaving Lobelia standing, slack-jawed and silent by, the kitchen table.

"Wait!" she called out, suddenly and to her own surprise. "Wait! I just... I remembered..."

Thorin stopped in the kitchen doorway and looked back at her, and she held her hand up to him; then she gathered the bottom of her dressing gown in her grip and hurried off into the pantry. There, she rooted around a bit before drawing out a half-full honey crock, then she rushed back to where the Dwarf was waiting. She held jar out to him, and he eyed it thoughtfully.

"I thought that you had none," he said, taking it gently from her.

"I said that I had none to _spare._ "

"And you can spare it _now_?"

"Call it recompense, if you will," said Lobelia. "I would be scandalized if I did not offer to replace that which I have broken. And that aside, the gold you gave me was worth more than treatment for just a few stings, and... and never let it be said that I failed to earn my keep!"

She took a deep breath and folded her arms over her chest; then a kind smile crossed the Dwarf's bearded face. He bowed again, lower this time, though his eyes never left her own.

"And I thank you for it, _Mrs. Sackville-Baggins_."

He turned then and headed out of the kitchen and down the hall, and Lobelia followed behind until he was at the door. Once there, she quickly sprinted ahead of him and turned the knob, swinging the door open and letting the now-bright morning sunshine flow inside.

"Do you think..." she began as he slid the honey-crock into his satchel; then she clamped her mouth shut.

"Yes?" pressed Thorin, stepping outside and stooping to put on his boots.

She shook her head, then the shake shifted into a nod. This was a bad idea, she knew; but still she went on. "Do you think you and Bilbo might just... that is, would you _consider_ coming to tea this afternoon?"

 _Oh, that was so foolish!_

Thorin grinned faintly at her. "I will ask him," he said as he finished donning his boots.

"Well, if he decides... that is, if he doesn't _mind_ , then tea is at four," she said. "But _you_ must clean yourself first, and clean yourself _well_."

"I will," said Thorin with a nod; then his eyes searched hers for a moment. "About those rumors that you may have heard about me..."

"Oh, yes! How absurd they are!" she said without thinking; then her cheeks began to warm.

The corner of the Dwarf's mouth turned up into a small smile. "Yes," he said, rubbing his bearded chin. "Quite absurd."

He turned then, without another word, and set off down her foot-path; and after watching him for a few seconds, Lobelia shut the door and threw her hands up into the air. What an odd visit that had been! Really, what the Dwarf had said was ridiculous. Bilbo Baggins would never save lives or confront dragons or recover treasure or befriend lords and kings.

Her eyes widened and she slid her sticky hand into her pocket, drawing out the coin and holding it again to the light. She let out a little squeak as the gold fell from her hold and onto the floor; then she spun around to the window and looked out. Thorin was no longer in sight, though, and Lobelia turned back around and picked up the coin.

The rumors! That was all they were, _right_? All those stories of him and those other Dwarves that came and went from Bag End being noble were just tales! Of course, she supposed Thorin's manners hadn't been _too_ poor, as far as his kind went; but there was still no chance that scruffy, scarred, ill-tempered Dwarf could be _royal_. _Was_ there?

But then, if he _was_...

Another noise escaped her lips and she looked down at herself, then slid her now-dirty hand over her dressing gown, blushing to think of how rumpled it was. And she was still wearing her sleeping-bonnet! And her hands were filthy, and her face was sticky from where she had touched it, and the kitchen was now an awful sight!

She had to get dressed, she had to tidy the place up, she had to get to baking some biscuits and pastries for tea! While she was about it, maybe she would make something small for Rorimac and Menegilda, as well. A gift in celebration of their baby. But she would need to go to the market, in that case. She didn't have enough flour, and now she needed honey!

What a fine mess this was! She had so much to get done before the afternoon! So much!

"Otho!" she called out, sliding the coin back into her pocket as she ran towards her bedroom. "Otho, get your lazy self up! We're having guests over for tea!"


End file.
